^* .^ 



















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- ■i.,'>^•\^^' -o'*^5\o^ ^% 







ARNOLD, 



AND 



OTHER POEMS. 



J. E. orto:n 







JSTEW YORK: 

PARTRIDGE & BRITTAN, PUBLISHERS, 

800 BPwOADWAY. 

1854. 



76 SJr'^ f 






Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1854, by 
J. R. ORTON, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District 
of New York. 



\ 



^' 



. .. 3 



/ -J 



TO 

ASAHEL CLARK KENDRICK, D.D., 

IN TOKEN OF 

A YOUTHFUL FRIENDSHIP, 
WHICH HAS ENDURED IN MANHOOD, 

IS AFFECTIONATELY AND RESPECTFULLY 

INSCRIBED. 

Brooklyn, 1854. 



CONTENTS. 



ARNOLD, 7 

POEMS- 
MUSIC, 103 

OLIVIA, 107 

THE STEEPLE BELL, 110 

THE DREAMER, .......... 112 

THE BROKEN LYRE, ........ 112 

THE WHITE CASCADE, 113 

NIGHT, ........... 115 

NAZARETH, 119 

GOOD ANGELS, . 123 

ENGLAND, 124 

BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON, ...... 126 

JACKSON, ........... 127 

THE OPAL, .......... 128 

THE OLD man's SORROW, . ...... 129 

BLIGHT NOT THY PROMISE, BOY, 130 

O GUIDE THY BARK WITH CARE, . . . . . , 131 

THE STRAWBERRY, . . . . . . . . 132 

MY BROWN HULAN, ......... 133 

TO ROSE, . . ... . . . . . • • 134: 

TO LILIAN, 135 

TO GERALDINE, ......... 135 

THE ONEIDA CHIEF, 136 

THE DOOMED SHIP, 138 

POLAND, 138 

decatur's revenge, ........ 140 

SONNET TO JENNY LIND, 142 

SONNET TO THE SUN, 142 

SONNET ON THE PORTRAITS OF L. A. GODEY AND G. R. GRAHAM, 143 

BONNET TO PROGRESS, 143 

A SONG FOR THE MILLION, A PRAYER FOR US ALL, . . 144 



' American Officers. 



:f nsnns %ti^xmuUi. 



Washington, Commander-in-Chief of the American Army. 

GENERAL ARNOLD, 

General Greene, 

General Gates, 

Marquis de Lafayette, 

General Knox, 

General Wooster, 

Adjutant-General Wilkinson, 

Colonel Habiilton, Aid to Waehington, 

Colonel Jameson, 

Colonel Lewis, 

Major Tallmadge, 

Major Armstrong, 

Captain Boyd, 

Captain Ogden, 

President Hancock, 

President Jay, 

Mrs. Arnold's Father. 

J. H. Smith, friend to Arnold. 

M. DE la Luzerne, French Minister to the United States. 

Paulding, Van Wart, and Williams, American Soldiers, 

Sir Henry Clinton, Commander-in-Chief of the British Army. 

MAJOR ANDRE, Adjutant-general of the British Army. 

General Robertson, j 

Colonel Beverly Robinson, > British Officers. 

Governor Tryon, ) 

Captain Sutherland, Commander of the Vulture. 



I Presidents of Congress. 



Members of Congress, Aids, Soldiers, Citizens, Servants, Messengers, Boatmen, 
a Merchant, a Jew, Captain of a Privateer. 



Miss Shippen, married to General Arnold. 
Mrs. Arnold's Maid, Nurse, and Child. 
Mrs. Morris. 
Ghost. 



SCENE— UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



ARNOLD. 



ACT I 

Scene I. — Philadelphia. The Street. 
Enter General Greene and Aid, meeting. 
Aid. The final vote, amid an angry storm 
Of rough and warlike words, has just been taken. 
Arnold and Stark are superseded, sir. 

Greene. Indeed ! indeed ! 'Twill be sad news to them, 
But sadder to the army and our cause. 

Enter two Members of Congress. 

\st Mem. The act we feared at length is consummated : 
The blow is struck, aimed at the very pillars 
Of our good cause. If thus our oaks are broken 
In wanton folly by our own mad hands, 
Farewell to freedom ! we're not worthy of it. 

Greene. Most deeply do I grieve at this result. 
Which will embarrass our illustrious chief, 
Create dissatisfaction and distrust 
Among our troops ; and lose us, much I fear, 
At least two swords we illy now can spare. 
Stark is a good, a gallant officer, 
While Arnold is the bravest of the brave ; 
And both of them have many zealous friends. 
How can our Congress justify the act 
With fairness or with prudence 1 How defend 
Themselves before the country 1 



ARNOLD. [ActI. 



2d Mem. Reasons, sir. 

Are cheap as herring. Think you this was done 
Without a reason ? There were twenty reasons ; 
And had these twenty not first found a tongue, 
Full twenty others, equally unanswerable, 
"Would have tripped forth and bellowed to be heard. 
The gravest urged was, that each State should share 
In the distribution of the offices. 

Greene. Singular way to officer an army ! 
'Twill do in raising troops, but not to head them. 

1st Mem. In Arnold's case, but mostly out of doors, 
His reputation was severely handled. 
And made a point against him. 

Greene. General Arnold 

Is a most able officer ; bold, but safe. 
Untiring as the wind, and loves our cause. 
He may have many faults, but if our Congress 
Require that faultless men should fight our battles, 
I fear our liberties are but a dream. 

\st Mem. These reasons, sir, are to amuse the people- 
To speak, and write, and print. They are no reasons 
Which meet the case. One little, little word — 
A word of mighty import, which sets up 
Empires and pulls them down again, and scatters 
Blessings to-day, and curses on the morrow, 
To heal or scath a nation, will explain 
This most imprudent act — that little word 
Is Faction. Scarcely has our infant country 
Passed from the midwife's hands, when we begin 
An idiot strife to see who shall be greatest. 
To this are Stark and Arnold sacrificed. 

Greene. I feared it. But farewell ! I now rejoin 
Our little army, the unwilling bearer 
Of most unwelcome news. We have a rock 
In Washington, 'gainst which a thousand storms 
May break unharming — on whose massive strength, 
And hope in Heaven, our country must repose. [Exevnt. 



ScexeII.] ARNOLD. 



Scene II. — Providence. A Room in General Arnold's Quarters. 
Enter General Arnold. 

Arn. Fame ! thou and I are brothers. Chary king ! 
While others woo thee so beseechingly, 
I've stormed thy citadel, borrowed thy cro^^^^, 
And share thy very throne. Among the names 
Men mouth, and, trumpet-tongued, shout to the wmds, 
To witch all ears, none glitters more than Arnold. 
And I have earned my laurels. Men have shrunk, 
And serried ranks have paled, as with these hands 
I've plucked renown from out the cannon's mouth, 
On land and sea, in wilderness and snows. 
Laughing to scorn the wasting shafts of fate. 
The pinnacle I've won is ftxirly won : 

What is there still for me % Place, power, and wealth, \ 
Ere this, if sleepy Congress has bestirred 
Its leathern legs, the rank at least is mine ; 
So that but one, in all the grand array 
Of this new-born Republic, overtops me. 
He proudly sits upon his wizard height, 
A mystery : I cannot fathom him. 
He is no errant knight to storm men's minds — 
He has no speech to captivate their ears — 
He is no carpet clown to charm their wives ; 
Yet all the world conspire to light his brow 
With haloes, and to canonize his acts. 

And find a glory in his very name. [Goes to a ivindow. 

Where lags the sluggard courier % When he comes 
I'll stir his blood : another droning week 
Will rust me into nothingness, or make 
Of me a parlor general, like Gates. 
My lazy enemy, in his island fastness. 
Eats, drinks, and sleeps his fill ; while all New England, 
Exhausted by the drain of this long war, 
Cannot, or will not, furnish me with means 
To attack and crush him. 



10 ARNOLD. [Act I. 

Enter Aid and Messenger. 

Aid. Sir, a messenger, 

Bringing dispatches from Head-quarters. ■ 

Mess. These, ■ 

For Brio-adier-general Arnold. 

Am. Right, sir, right. 

[^Exeunt Aid and Messenger. 
[Opens the packet.] Superseded? Lincoln! St. Clair! they 

major-generals'? 
This is some trick, a forgery, a joke ! [Examines the letter. 

What have we here ? [Opens another letter. 

From Washington himself: 
[Reads.] " Do nothing rashly, justice shall be done you." 
'Tis true, then ! superseded ! and a batch 
Of dolts set over me. Disgraced ! destroyed ! 
So far as my vile enemies, who hang 
Upon my footsteps, like a pack of wolves 
Thirsting for blood, can do it. Ah, poor me ! 
They have achieved a strength I dreamed not of. 
But I will meet them face to face, and play 
This match-game bravely through : and they shall drink, 
Aye, to the dregs, the bitterness they've steeped 
For me. Oh, base ingratitude ! Oh, lame, 
Imbecile and distracted, wise, wise Congress ! 
I'll beard you in your proud, conceited halls. 
Cram my commission in your very teeth. 
And cast myself, my wrongs, upon my country. [Exit, 

Scene III. — A Plain near Danbury. 
Enter General Wooster and Troops. 
Woos. Has Silliman come up ? 
Aid. He's near at hand. 

Woos. How many number we ? 
Aid. Six hundred, sir. 

All told, but marvelously full of fight. 

Woos. See that their arms are all in proper order, 
And each supplied with cartridges and flints. 



ScenkV.] ARNOLD. U 

Enter General Arnold. 
Welcome, brave General Arnold ! You have heard, 
No doubt, of our invasion by the foe — 
The sack and burning of the town of Danbury, 
And the destruction of the public stores, 
By Tryon and his myrmidons. A few- 
Brave hearts have gathered round me here, and though 
We arc outnumbered more than three to one, 
We'll drive them to their ships again, or die. 

Am. Well said, brave general ! I had supposed 
My fighting days were over. Perhaps not. 
If you'll accept me as a volunteer, 
I'll help with all my heart — strike one more blow 
For my beloved, but most ungrateful country. 

Woos. My hearty thanks ! Your counsel and your sword 
Will be most timely in our desperate strait. ^Exeunt, 

Scene IV. — A Road near Ridgefield. 

Enter British Troops, led ly Gov. Tryon, and, following them, 
American Troops, led by General Wooster. 
1^005. There is the foe, my men ! there is the foe ! 
Show them your mettle, boys, and teach them manners ! 
Try. Halt ! and chastise this rebel gathering. 

[Volleys are interchanged. 
Woos. Never mind their random shots — come on ! come on ! 
Drive these vain braggarts from our homes and hearths. 

[He is wounded, and falls. 

T die, my country, cheerfully for thee. [Dies. 

[The Americans fall lack, and exeunt. 

Scene V. — A Street in Ridgefield. On the right, huildings ; on 
the left, a ledge of rocks. Between, a barricade of carts, 
logs, and earth, hastily thrown together. 

Enter General Arnold and Troops. 
Am. I've fought these boasting Britons three to one 
Before to-day. A little odds is nothing. 
The more there are, the thicker are the marks 



12 ARNOLD. [Act! 

For our sure balls. But if there be a man 
Who fears to meet the invaders of our soil, 
These plunderers of our towns, these murderers 
Of our sweet wives and children, let him go, 
And save himself from harm. Is there not one ? 
Not one. Then we will give a good account 
Of this day's work to an admiring world. 
Cheers for your country ! Now ! 

Many Voices. Hurrah ! hurrah ! 

1st Soldier. We'll pepper them ! 

2d Soldier. We'll wear no British yoke ! 

Sd Soldier. We'll die free men, or, living, will be free ! 

4th Soldier. We'll make the Lion hang his tail to-day ! 

5th Soldier. And flout our Eagle in his craven face ! 

Am. Steady ! They come ! 

Enter Gov. Tryon and British Army. 

Aim at their waistbands. Fire ! 

[Volleys are rapidly interchanged, and many fall. A detach- 
ment of the British gain the ledge of rocks commanding 
the harricade. 

Fall back ! my men, fall back ! 

[The Aviericans retreat, excepting Arnold, who remains 
alone, sitting on his horse. 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
Death to King George, and freedom to the States ! 

[The detachment on the rocks fire at him ; his horse falls, dy- 
ing, when they rush on him with the bayonet. He shoots 
the first man with a pistol, springs from the struggling ani- 
mal to the ground, and follows unharmed after his troops. 

Try. That's Arnold, the rebel thunderbolt; none other 
Would dare a deed like that. 

Aid. Arnold, sir, Arnold ? 

Try^. Yes, Arnold. 

\st Soldier. Arnold ! 



Scene VI. ] ARNOLD. 13 

2fZ Soldier. Arnold ! 

M Soldier. Arnold ! 

Ath Soldier. Arnold ! 

Try. What, men, does't frighten you 1 He's flesh and blood. 
Cold lead will kill him : make you sure of that, 
If ever it be your fortune on the field 
To meet again this comet of the war. 

Re-enter Arnold and Troops, in the rear. 

Am. Charge home upon them ! Give the knaves cold steel ! 

[The British retreat. 
Victory ! 

Many Voices. Victory ! [Exeunt. 

Scene VI. — Philadelphia. A Committee-room in the Capitol. 
Enter two Members of Congress. 

\st Mem. We are deputed on a pretty errand ! 
I loathe the part I am called upon to act. 
If we so badly need the sword of Arnold, 
Let's do him justice first, and then command it. 

2d Mem. Have we not done him justice ? We have granted 
The rank he claimed. He's major-general. 

\st Mem. But the five juniors who were placed above him 
Remain above him still. 'Tis a mockery 
Thus to redress his wrongs ; and a disgrace 
To Congress and the nation. 

2d Mem. All admit 

His weighty services and brilliant deeds. 
But there are stains upon his character — 
Charges of violence and peculation — 
And such defects inherent in his nature, 
That those who most admire are forced to doubt him. 

\st Mem. Then let us tell him so. Why should we play 
The hypocrite, and laud before the world. 
And say he's clean, yet treat him as a villain ? 
The Board of War, after inquiry meet, 
Pronounced his character and conduct pure, 



14 ARNOLD. [Act I. 

And cruelly and groundlessly aspersed. 
This, this award was solemnly affirmed 
By our own body ; yet we still refused 
To give him his just rank, but in its stead, 
Gave him a horse ! Is Washington deceived 1 
He has stuck by liim like a brother-in-arms, 
Defended him, and sought on all occasions 
To soothe his wounded feelings, and to show 
His undiminished confidence. In the midst 
Of our distrust and doubt, that wise commander 
Named him. to lead the army on the Hudson ; 
\Yhich being declined, he placed him at the head 
Of the forces stationed here ; which post he fills 
With vigilance and honor. Now, again, 
When dangers thicken, and alarms are rife, 
W^ashington asks that this same scoundrel, Arnold, 
Should be dispatched at once to invigorate 
The Army of the North. He is judicious. 
Active, and brave, says Washington, and the troops 
Will place in him great trust and confidence. 

Enter a Messenger. 

2d Mem. Seek General Arnold, and invite him hither. 

[Exit Messenger. 
But, sir, can aught be said in vindication 
Of the enormous claims that Arnold makes 
In his submitted statements of account 1 
He writes the country debtor to him thousands, 
By him advanced to aid the public service 
In his frontier campaigns of a few months. 
No one pretends that he had cash, or credit, 
To raise these sums. There is a fallacy, 
Clear as the noonday sun, in these demands : 
And some of them upon their very face 
Are villainous, outrageous. He fights well ; 
But while with one hand he defends the State, 
He robs it with the other. An apt soldier, 
He serves for glory, and to fill his purse. 



;eneVI.] ARNOLD. 16 

I'd trust him only on the battle-field, 
And there, I'm free to say, he is supreme. 

1st Mem. Envy has more to do with his disgrace 
Than his accounts. Faction has done its worst ; 
And prejudice, even in most noble minds. 
Is at work right valiantly. So let him perish ! 
Be sacrificed to hate ! Let us accept 
His tendered resignation, and brave Arnold 
Become a by-word in the ixiouths of men — 
Lost 'mong the refuse of the things that were. 
Let us do this, or having by solemn act 
Pronounced him innocent, let's treat him so, 
And give him his just dues. In the same breath 
We have acquitted and condemned this man ; 
Adjudged him honors and impressed disgrace ; 
And this, though done by an august tribunal, 
Smacks strangely of hypocrisy and craft. 
To crown our meanness, while we use him thus, 
A sudden danger threats, and we, forsooth ! 
Needing his sword, become meek suppliants, 
And pray him to defend us with his life. 

Enter General Arnold. 

2d Mem. We are commissioned by the powers of Congress 
To ask you to withdraw your resignation. 
And join at once the Army of the North. 
Disasters are o'erwhelming that frontier. 
The important fortress of Ticonderoga, 
Impregnable though deemed, has strangely fallen ; 
The forces of St. Clair are badly beaten ; 
And in pursuit, with his victorious thousands, 
Burgoyne is pushing onward without check. 

Arn. This is, indeed, bad news ; but not, I trust 
To Congress wholly unexpected, sirs'? 

2d Mem. At this stern juncture, General Washington, 
With handsome mention of your qualities. 
Requests that you be sent without delay 



16 AENOLD. [Act I. 

To that department of the public service. 

Here is his letter, sir. [Arnold reads. 

Am. Will Congress, first. 

Grant me but simple justice — give me rank, 
And audit my accounts "? 

2d Mem. There is no time 

For action now : the case is very pressing. 

Am. Am I expected to accept a service 
Under St. Clair, and thus indorse my wrongs 1 

2rf Mem. By no means, sir : your protest stands recorded ; 
And Congress, in good time, reaching the question, 
Will in its wisdom look it o'er again, 
And doubtless do you justice. 

Am. I will go ! 

The peril of my country bids me smother 
All private griefs, and fly to her defense. 
My pressing interests, my reputation. 
Which I esteem more dearly than my life, 
And which, as I have earned it, I'm determined 
Unspotted to transmit to my dear children, 
I leave a sacred trust, in the good keeping 
Of Congress and my country. Fare ye well ! 
An hour hence shall find me on my journey. 

1st Mem. Most noble general ! you outdo yourself! 
Such magnanimity should teach the stones 
To move in your behalf, and cry out, shame ! 
The country, yet, will make you reparation. 
Right all your wrongs, and cover you with honor. [Exeunt. 

Scene VII. — Plain of Saratoga. A space before the American 
Ca?}7p. Firing in the distance. 

Enter General Gates. 

Gates. Fool am I that I yielded. The hot blood 
And urgency of Arnold overpowered. 
And swerved me from my reason. Should he gain 
An advantage of the foe in this encounter, 
The laurels which of right belong to me 



Scene VII.] ARNOLD. 17 

Will settle on his brow. At this one point, 
Of all the points in the revolving year, 
I must not be o'ershadowed. Silently 
A change is working in the public mind. 
Sour discontent is rife. Men mutter much ; 
And Conway whispered in my startled ear, 
Irreverently, " Is Washington a god 1 
Why should his name make music on the winds, 
And that of Gates be dumb 1" 

Enter Aid. 

What troops are those 
Winding up yonder height ? 

Aid, Scamm ell's battalion. 

Gates. Where are they going, pray 1 

Aid. To reinforce 

Brave Arnold, who contends with desperate odds 
On a most bloody field. 

Gates. Sir, call them back. 

For not another man shall join the fight. 
I will not suffer the camp to be exposed. [Exit Aid. 

Arnold will rave at this, but let him rave : 
I care not for his raving — why should I % 
Am I not his superior, his chief? 
Will he resist my will % Ah, let him try it. 

Enter an Officer, in haste. 

Off. I beg to ask if Scammell's brave battalion 
Turns back and shuns the battle by your order ? 

Gates. It does, sir. I can furnish no more troops 
For yonder heights : the camp must be protected. 
Our stores, on which our every thing depends. 
Are quite exposed already. 

Off. General ! 

A victory is just within our grasp — 
The moment is important. Let us have 
A few more men, and we'll insure the camp, 
Honor to you, and freedom to our land ! 



18 ARNOLD. [ActI. 

Enter General Wilkinson. 

Gates. Arnold has sent again for reinforcements 
Which, loth to risk so much upon a venture, 
I have declined to furnish. Am I right 1 

WiL 'Tis almost night : the contest now has lasted 
rive hours full. We've surely done enough 
To save the honor of our country's arms. 
To-day, it was by no means the intention 
To put forth all our strength. No one has named 
This day, of all the bright days of the year, 
To be immortalized as that on which 
Burgoyne should be defeated. 

Enter General Arnold. 

Arn. How is this 1 

Why all this hesitation 1 Am not I 
To be supported 1 We have met Burgoyne, 
And hold him matched upon an open field. 
Give me more men ! and ere the sun is set, 
I'll hurl him and his proud invincibles 
Into the Hudson ! 

Gates. Sir, the point is settled. 

Our forces here are needed, at the present, 
For other duty. 

Am. General Gates, I ask 

A reinforcement to complete the work 
Of this most glorious day, in such a manner 
As the best safety of our common country 
And its good fame demand. And not alone 
I ask, but I implore. 

Gates. You're answered, sir. 

Arn. Good God ! Must all that has been won be lost 1 
The lives of hundreds poured out on the field, 
Foot up at nothing 1 My brave fellows stand 
To be shot down like sheep, when a battalion. 
Sent to the rescue, would, with one good charge, 
Shiver the weakened enemy like glass. 
And give us victory 1 Should disaster close 



Scene VII.] ARNOLD. 19 



This bloody day, I'm thankful that no stain, 
Save that of British blood, is on my sword, 
Or my divison. 

Enter Colonel Lewis. 
What news from the heights 1 

Lew. Our forces hold their own right manfully. 
But can do little more. All is uncertain. 

Am. By Heaven ! I'll end the struggle. [Exit Arnold. 

Gates. Where goes he ^ 

Lew. Like a chafed wolf, to crush Burgoyne, or die. 

Gates. Ho ! call him back, or he will do some rash 
And desperate deed. [Exit Officer. 

Lew. I trust, your honor, nothing 

More desperate than to win another laurel, 
Or else lie down in glory. 

Gates. Brave as rash ! 

The life of General Arnold is too precious, 
Thus to be thrown away. 

Re-enter Arnold. 

I feared, in your heat, 
You might expose yourself to needless danger. 
Arn. Fear not for me : fear only for yourself. 

Enter Aid. 

Aid. The battle lags : the enemy, exhausted. 
Are drawing oil'. Our troops, too few and worn 
To follow up their vantage, grimed with blood 
And smoke, their torn flags flying, surlily, 
Are looking toward the camp. 

Am. Gates I you have spoiled 

As brave a battle-field as the great sun 
Did ever shine upon. Three times I led 
Our raw militia 'gainst the serried hosts 
Of England ; and three times her veterans reeled, 
Like drunken men, and parted, till her army 
Was nearly cut in twain. Five times we charged, 



20 ARNOLD. [Act I. 

Beneath an iron storm that came like hail, 

Burgoyne's fierce batteries, and took them, sir ; 

Handled the very cannon with our hands ; 

And should have brought them off, had we but men 

To drag them from the woods. My God ! my country ! 

Is this most bloody day to be fought over — 

Another thousand ghastly corpses made — 

To gratify a hungry vanity 1 Exit Arnold. 

Gates. Arnold is quite excited. 

Wil. Quite, sir, quite. \^Exeunt. 

Scene VIII. — The Same. A space before the Camp. 
Enter two Officers. 

1st Of. A courier has just arrived with mails, 
And brings our general's singular report 
Of the recent battle, made direct to Congress. 
It seems he waived the old formality 
And custom of the army, of reporting 
To the Commander-in-Chief, as out of date — ■ 
A relic of a by-gone chivalry. 

2c? Off. Indeed ! And is the document itself 
As strange as this proceeding 1 

1st Off. Quite, sir; both 

Are of one pattern, wrought by the same hand. 
The name of Arnold is not mentioned in it 
Nor his division. Those of us who fought 
That terrible battle on yon bloody heights, 
The dead and living, officers and men. 
Are given to fame, and to the kind remembrance 
Of our dear land, in bulk, as shippers say. 
In the neat phrase, " detachments from the army." 

2cZ Off. 'Tis very strange. 

'nter General Arnold, with a printed paper in his hand; and 
Generals Gates and Wilkinson, yro;?i another direction. 

Am. Is this, sir, your report 1 

Gates. It is. 

Am. Be good enough to show me, sir, 



Scene VIII.] ARNOLD. 21 

Where you have named the officers and men 
Who did the fighting, toiled, and bled, and died? 
W^here is the name of my division, sir, 
And where my own 1 

Gates. Most valiant General Arnold ! 

It did not once occur to me that you 
Could wish my note official, on this subject, 
To be devoted to a panegyric 
Of your distinguished deeds. I did not think it ! 
Your brow is not so bare of laurels, sir, 
That you should ask a wi-eath, new and fresh-braided, 
At every trifle. 

Am. Trifle ! General Gates. 

Your conduct is most base, contemptible. 
Mean, and malicious. 'Tis, sir, of a piece 
With other of your recent acts toward me — 
With the w^ithdrawing part of my command 
Without my knowledge. 

Gates. Sir, the rest may follow. 

If you're not more respectfLd in your speech. 

Am. Take it. I shall defend my rights and fame 
While I have sword and voice ; and shall repel 
Insult and wrong. Our controversy, sir. 
Shall be adjudged by Congress and the country. 

Gates. With Congress, sir, I know your influence ! 

Arn. And do you taunt me with my injuries. 
And throw them in my flice ? Is this the great. 
Aspiring Gates, that some have said should grasp 
The place of Washington. As well an owl 
Might head the eagle in his sunward flight. 
I do not see your motive, General Gates, 
Unless it be, indeed, to be rid of me — 
Disgust and drive me from the Northern Army. 
I came against my inclination, sir, 
At the solicitation, made most urgent, 
Of Congress, backed by the Commander-in-Chief, 
Who seemed to think my services of value. 
At this important crisis, to the country. 



22 ARNOLD. [Act I. 



Gates. I differ in opinion from them, then. 
And that I may not be misunderstood, 
I beg to say, most clearly, that I deem you 
Of very little consequence to the army, 
Here or elsewhere. 

Am. Then order me my passports. 

And I'll relieve you from my useless presence. 

Gates. Sir, you shall have them ; and I here dismiss you 
From your command. The left wing of the army 
I'll head myself; the right shall be reserved 
For General Lincoln, who will soon be here. 
See, Wilkinson, that passports are made out 
Tor General Arnold and his suite to jDass 
To Washington's Head-quarters. 

Am. I submit 

To your insulting conduct. General Gates, 
At present, as I must — as bound to do 
By the stern rules of war. A time will come. 
My chief, of reckoning 'tween you and me ; 

[Exeunt Gates and Wilkinson. 
When I will show you as you are, a vain, 
Conceited scoundrel, miserable poltroon — 
Less fit to lead an army than my grandmother, 
Whose distaff would outdo your valiant sword. 
But stay : the shadow of the future rushes 
In mystic shapes upon my troubled brain. 
I hear the booming cannon, and the shout 
Of furious thousands on the quaking field. 
Charge ! Strike for liberty ! Strike for the States ! 
We're on the eve of battle : should I go 
At such a time as this, my enemies 
Might say that Arnold turned his back and fled ; 
And Arnold never flees. I'll tarry on. 
Till this great game, between Burgoyne and Gates, 
Is finished ; and, perhaps, poor Arnold with it. [Exit. 

Scene IX. — The Same. A space before the Camp. Firing in 
the distance. Officers and Troops in motion, crossing and 



&3ENEIX.] ARNOLD. 23 

recrossing, with much confusion. Drums, fifes, etc., play- 
ing. 

Officer. Forward ! quick time ! or we shall be too late. 
Another Off. Rush on the cannon, boys ! Push on ! push on ! 

\Exeunt. 
Enter General Arnold. 

Am. The conflict has begun. Hark ! the great guns 
Are throwing out their entrails to the winds. 
I hear the balls go crashing through the trees, 
And almost see them skipping on the ground 
In their fantastic play. Hurrah ! hurrah ! 
The gallant armies shout their battle-cries — 
Now, for St. George ! now, for Columbia ! 
Burgoyne is making his last push to-day, 
For victory, or safety. He will strike 
With all the fury of his deep chagrin 
At being foiled, hemmed in, and nearly crushed, 
By foemen he has hitherto despised. 
Who leads my fellows in the wild melee ? 
Gates is all snug and quiet in his tent, 
Save that his clothes are packed, and all things ready 
For safe retreat. My God ! and where am I, 
When swords are flashing, and the rattling shot 
Flies, and the bayonets in wild waves sweep, 
To do the work of freemen ? Here am I, 
Chained, helpless, desperate ! For my ravaged country 
I've poured my blood like water. All my hopes, 
My strength, my life, I've offered on her altar. 
And where the bravest shrunk, there have I met 
Her foes unblanched ; and all that mortal power 
Could do, I've done in her extremity. 
But she repays me hate, distrust, and scorn. 
Her minions hunt out cause of infamy 
Even in my wounds. Must I submit to this. 
And lick the hands that scourge and torture me ? 
Must I bow down to Gates, and cry. All hail ! 
Thou prince of — puppies ! Sooner will I break 



24 ARNOLD. [Act I. 

This sword upon a hog, and cast these trappings 

Into his sty, and lay me down to rot. 

Hark ! the deep guns most merrily do play. 

Another shout ! Hurrah ! I can endure 

These raging furies at my heart no longer. 

Sword ! thou hast done some wondrous things for me, 

Be thou my friend once more, and we are quits ! 

Where is my horse 1 Gates, I'm your victor now. 

If you ask more, I'll meet you in red hell, 

And settle with you there. My horse ! my horse ! 

Enter Servant. 

Bring me my horse — my Andalusian Black : 

I'll sweep the field upon a raven's wing. 

And dealing death, will find it. Hur — hurrah ! [Exeunt. 

Scene X. — The Same. A Room in General Gates' Quarters. || 

Enter General Gates and several Officers. 

Off. The troops behave most nobly, and Burgoyne 
Finds himself matched to-day. The gallant Poor, 
Under a murderous fire, has stormed the heights ; 
Brave Morgan, with his deadly riflemen. 
Pours on the foe his storms of leaden hail ; 
And ere I left, like a black thunderbolt, 
Surcharged with fire, Arnold came dashing up ; 
And with a terrible shout, he flung himself 
Headlong into the battle. 

Gates. Arnold's mad. 

He's there without my orders, or my leave. 
He must be mad, or drunk ; and in his folly 
May ruin every thing. Did you see Armstrong? 

Off. I saw him galloping across the field. 

Gates. I sent him to recall this errant knight. 

Enter Major Armstrong. 

Arm. I could not catch the tiger. He perceived me 
Too quickly, and, no doubt, divined my errand \ 



SceneX.] ARNOLD. 20 

For, touching with the spur his fiery steed, 

He flew away ; and for a good half hour, 

Where shot fell thickest and the work was hottest 

I chased him, but in vain. He has assumed 

The entire command, and with great heat and fury 

Leads in the desperate assaults himself. 

Our troops arc fighting like so many demons ; 

And if no accident should mar the day, 

A brilliant victory can hardly fail u*s. 

Gates. I am astonished, gentlemen, that Arnold 
Should thus defy me, and disgrace himself. 
"What's to be done? I fear he will so far 
Derange the plan and order of the battle. 
As to produce disaster to the cause. 
At this dark hour committed to my hands. 
Can he be seized, think ye 1 

Enter an Officer from the Field of Battle, 

Off. Arnold has broke 

The British lines. The enemy are fleeing 
For refuge to their camp. 

All hut Gates. Hurrah ! hurrah ! 

Off. Never, upon a mortal battle-field, 
Was such mad work as I have witnessed, sirs. 
The terrible Arnold has outdone himself. 
He and his wizard horse must bear charmed lives : 
Through fire and iron hail, like iron things. 
They pass unharmed. Myself, I saw them dash, 
Full twice ten rods, between the opposing ranks, 
Just in the cross-fire of the combatants. 
Without a scratch. But, sirs, his wondrous charges, 
When he did break the army of Burgoyne, 
You should have seen. With vehement appeals. 
Whirling his sword, his eye a dreadful fire. 
With shouts that paled the foe, he hurled his columns 
Upon the proud invincibles of England, 
And scattered them like sheep. The flying fragments 
He drove before him to their very guns j 
3 



26 ARNOLD. [Act II. 

And in the whirlwind of his wrath, swept on 
And over them, like Fate. 

Gates. Call in the troops ! 

Arrest this madman, Arnold ! We will see 
"Who's master here — if he be chief, or I. [Exeunt, 

Scene XI. — The Same. The Battle-field, near the British Camp, 
The British Troops fieeing behind their walls. 

Enter General Arnold and Forces, 

Arn, Forward ! my boys, let's finish up our work ! 
You, sir, were with me in the wilderness ; 
Yow, by my side when I did storm Quebec ; 
YoUi on Champlain ! We've seen rough work together : 
Now to it once again ! Forward ! my men. 
Strike ! for your country strike ! your wives, your homes ! 
And break the tyrant's fingers from your throats ! 
Come on, and follow me ! 

The Troops. Hurrah! hurrah! 

[They charge gallantly at the sally-port, under a shower of 
grapeshot. The gate is reached, when Arnold fallSf 
wounded, and his horse dead. He is raised in the arms 
of his Aids. 

Arn. Push on ! and let me die. Down with the gates ! 
Hurrah ! [Faints, and is home off; and the scene closes. 



ACT II 



Scene I. — Albany. General Arnold's Booms in a Hotel. Ar- 
nold sitting with his wounded limh bolstered up. 

Arn. Accursed leg ! Now might I be a man 
Once more, if 'twere not for thy shabby tricks 
In failing to support me. Congress has, 



Scene II.] ARNOLD. 27 

At last, relented. I am again a peer 

Among my peers : honored, but yet, not paid — 

Gilded in rank, but coppered in my purse. 

Twice hast thou served me thus, thou rotten stick ! 

And failed me at my need. On that dread night, 

When, 'mid the northern snows, a hope forlorn, 

I led against the fortress of Quebec, 

And poor Montgomery fell, thou also fell'st, 

A prey to powder and the leaden hail 

With which King George's men so freely blessed us. 

But if thou art not fit to stand upon. 

Thou art a standing witness for thy lord. 

And speakest eloquent things, which even his foes 

Dare not resist. So with much care and patience 

I'll nurse thee into life and strength again. 

Enter a Black Servant. 

Bring me the sword and dainty epaulets, 
Which Washington did send me, with his love. 

l^He examines them, and Jlourishes the weapon* 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! it fits me wondrous well. 
Would that dear Gates, and all my enemies, 
Within the reach of this keen weapon stood, 
With a single neck : I'd clip it, as this foul, 
Corrupted limb, and, like the bird of Jove, 
Soar unincumbered upward to the sun. 
Here, wheel me to the air, thou ace of clubs ! 
I'll see once more a patch of this vile world. 

[T/je Black wheels him out. 



Scene II. — The American Camp at Valley Forge. A Room in 
General Washington's Quarters. Washington writing at 
a table. He closes a letter, and rises. 

Wash. My God ! I thank thee for the little light 
That breaks upon our night. O give us wisdom ! 
And guide us by thy hand in all our ways ! 



28 ARNOLD. [ActH. 



Enter Colonel Hamilton and General Arnold. 

Ha??i. Sir, General Arnold ! 

Wash. I am very happy, 

Dear general, to take you by the hand. 
Allow me to assure you that you've had 
My warmest sympathy, while you have lain 
Disabled by your wounds. And let me add, 
You have my confidence, as your conduct has 
My approbation. 

Am. Thank you, thank you, sir ! 

I doubted not 'twere so. Were others also 
Just to my humble efforts to sustain 
Our bleeding cause, my trifling wounds were nothing. 
My life itself I'd freely offer up. 
'Tis not the steel that makes the keenest smart. 

Ham. While you, dear general, have sorely passed 
The weary months of this distressing winter, 
At Albany, we, sir, at Valley Forge, 
By no means have reposed on beds of roses. 
The patient sufferings of our noble troops, 
Hungry and naked, in these desert snows. 
Are quite enough to stamp the meanest soldier 
A patriot. No mercenary army 
Would have endured them for a single week. 
But now, we trust, a better time has come. 
The spring sheds genial suns and genial hopes. 
Steuben is bringing order out of chaos 
Among our men. The drill is working wonders. 
The recognition of our independence 
By such a power as France, and her alliance, 
And offers of assistance, cannot fail 
To reinvigorate each heart and sword. 
From Maine to Georgia. The opening campaign 
Teems with the promise of important things. 

Wash. The enemy are every day expected 
To vacate Philadelphia ; and then 
You will oblige me, general, by takmg 



Scene III] ARNOLD. 29 

Command at that important central point, 
"Where skill and valor are alike required. 

Am. Most cheerfully do I accept the trust. 

Wash. You will need great discretion : you will come 
In constant contact with the disaflected, 
And those who, from variety of motives, 
Claim to be neutrals in this holy struggle. 
Aside from brief instructions, all must rest 
On your own prudence. On that I rely. 

Am. I will not disappoint your expectations. 

Wash. Are the troops marshaled ? 

Ham. All in order, sir. 

With a fail show, awaiting your review. \Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Philadelphia. The Drawing-room in Edward Ship- 
pen's House. 

Enter Miss Shippen, with a letter in her hand. 

Miss S. The die is cast. Ambition, even if not 
The warmest violet tint of girlish fondness, 
Is satisfied ; and bright the future opes. 
Yet, why should I say so 1 Do I not love, 
With all the ardor of a virgin breast. 
Him unto whom I've promised this free hand 1 
Yes, Arnold ! of the brave, thou art the bravest. 
And worthy ; as thou hast this fluttering heart. 
All, all thine own ! 

Enter her Father. 

Please, will you be so good 
As to send this letter with your packet, father 1 
'Tis for our excellent friend, Major Andre. 

Fath. Ah, little traitor ! traitor to the States, 
And traitor to your rebel general ! 
Do you not think 'tis getting time to cease 
This correspondence with the enemy 1 
What is it all about — pray, let me see 1 

Miss S, O do not break the seal ; 'twill mar the sheet. 



ARNOLD. [Act II. 



'Tis a mere friendly letter of chit-chat, 
Quite frank and confidential, to be sure, 
As has been all our intercourse. I've told him 
Of my own little prospects ; have described 
The general to his mind, as best I could — 
His person, bearing, and his princely style 
Of living, in the palace of the Penns — 
His train of servants, and his coach and four, 
And the unusual splendor of his levees — 
All vanity, 'tis true, my dear papa. 
But such sweet vanity as we ladies love. 

Faih. There was a time, my dear, when I had hoped 
The bond between my daughter and Andre 
Might ripen into love. Why did it not ? 

Miss S. Oh, dear papa ! though friendship, warm and true, 
Exists between the major and myself, 
'Tis nothing more, and never went beyond. 
Andre, papa, is not a marrying man. 

Faih. I do not wish, my child, to cloud your future. 
Still must I view with great anxiety 
Your union wdth this famous general. 
In arms against his king. 

Miss S, He may return 

To his allegiance. 

Faih. True, he may return. 

But still I fear, both from his age and temper, 
He may not make my lovely daughter happy. 
The public voice, I find, e'en 'mong his friends. 
Is much divided with respect to him. 

Miss S. Every successful soldier, father dear, 
"Will have his enemies. 

Fath. I know it, child ; 

I do not wish to hurt your feelings, pet. 
Nor will I urge you from a settled purpose. 
But in this letter you have spoken of 
The general's style of living. Such rare splendor 
Hath its own fascination : will it last 1 
And if it should, will that alone give peace 1 



Scene m. J ARNOLD. 31 

Riches, my dear, take wings ; and, furthermore, 
I cannot learn that Arnold has a fortune ; 
And such expense would beggar common men. 

Miss S. Father ! dear father ! 

[Throws herself upon his neck, 

Fath. Pray, be comforted, 

My darlmg child. I have a parent's duty 
To do toward you, but you are free as air. 
Act for yourself, but wisely, daughter, wisely. [Exit Father. 

Enter General Arnold. 

Am. My lady-love in tears ! Ah, dry them up ! 
Let nothing cloud the paradise before us. 
Am I not yours 1 my heart, my life, my fame — 
All at your feet, my love 1 

Miss S. Dear general, 

Why are you thus in arms against your king ? 
Why not seek fame beneath the royal smile. 
And royal favor 1 There your qualities 
Would be esteemed as they deserve to be. 

Am. The points of difference, my dear, between 
The mother country and these colonies, 
We will not now discuss. Wise men, and good, 
Are on each side ; and we should not agree. 
To love we are agreed ; and with that joy * 
Let us be satisfied, and leave to states 
To settle their unloving controversies 
In their unloving ways, as best they may. 

3Iiss S. But if you're conquered, what becomes of us 1 
Even life may pay the forfeit of your acts. 

Arn. If the States manage to sustain themselves, 
In the broad empire of the West we found, 
What name will eclipse your Arnold's ? If we fail, 
King George will need strong friends and ready hands, 
And thus will give me welcome. But whatever 
May come, with you, dear, by my side. 
The paragon of women, lovelier far 
Than houri of Mohammed's paradise, 



32 ARNOLD. Act II. 

My arm around you thus, and this good sword — 

As brave a sword as ever girded thigh — 

Thus in my hand, I'll cut each Gordian knot 

That offers opposition in my path, 

And ope my way still upward. But, my love ! 

Let's smell the summer air in your sweet garden. [Exevnt. 

Scene IV. — The Same. The Drawivg-room in Gen. Arnold's 

Hovse. 

Enter several Servants. 

1st Serv. They come ! Is every thing in order perfect 
For the reception of our noble lady, 
As shall become our master 1 

2d Serv. Every thing. 

1st Serv. Then to your posts, and shame King George's 
lackeys, 
By the propriety of your behavior. [Exeunt, 

Enter General Arnold, and Miss Shippen as Mrs. Arnold. 

Arn. Welcome to my poor house, my lovely wife ! 
Here, all is yours. These servants will obey 
Your slightest nod ; and I, your humblest slave, 
Will do you reverence meekly with the rest. 
And shield you in these arms from every harm. 

Mrs. A. Thank you, my noble husband; my fond love 
Is all I have to offer in return. 

Enter several Officers, and Ladies and Gentlemen, loho salute the 
Bride ; among them President Hancock, and the French Min- 
ister, M. de la Luzerne. 

Luz. My lovely lady, every joy of life 
Be with you and the noble general ! 

Han. I augur well from this last victory. 
Since you, dear madam, have surrendered up 
To rebel arms, what hope can England have 
Of further conquests in these colonies 1 

[Arnold and Hancock walk to another pari of the room. 



Scene v.] ARNOLD. 83 

Arn. Here is a letter, sir, of which I beg 

To claim your care ; and here five hundred dollars, 

To be expended for the education 

And fit support, according to their station, 

Of the orphan children of brave General Warren. 

He was my friend ; and while our burdened country 

Delays provision 'gainst the poverty 

In which I hear they're living, be it mine 

To rescue them from want, and care for them. 
All necessary cost and proper charges 
For their fit maintenance, from time to time, 
I'll pay. 

Han. Your generous munificence 

Shall not be lost for want of due direction. 
I'll give it, sir, with joy, my best attention ; 
And join with you more ardently than ever 
To obtain a just provision for the wants 
Of these poor children, from a grateful country, 
For which their father offered up his life ; 
And thus relieve you from this heavy burden 
So liberally assumed. But now, farewell ! 

[Exeunt all, ceremoniovsly. 

Scene V. — The Same. A Chamber in Gen. Arnold's Hovse. 

Enter a Merchant. 

Mer. In getting to this room, I've trod in halls 
Of Oriental splendor. Menials throng 
At every turn. Carpets of Tyrian dye. 
Which yield beneath the foot like eider down ; 
Vases, candelabra, statues, ottomans. 
And every curious and gaudy thing. 
Beset me in my path. Such rare display 
Requires a heavy purse, and no reverses. 
Would that my errand were a different one. 

Enter General Arnold. 
Am, Good morning, sir; what news? 



34 ARNOLD. [Act H. 

Mer. I've nothing good. 

Our Jersey venture hath been footed up : 
Between us, sir, we've lost a thousand pounds. 

Am. Our other speculation still remains, 
And will succeed. It must, it shall succeed. 

Mer. I hope it may. I trust, believe it will. 

Am. Yes, yes ; from that we'll reap a golden harvest. 
Our thirty thousand pounds must turn to fifty — 
At least to fifty, sir. 

Mer. We'll hope for that ; 

And so, good day ! [Exit Merchant. 

Am. Curse on my villainous luck ! 

The dice are loaded, and at every turn 
Come up against me. I will change the throws, 
And force from fortune her reluctant smiles. 
Thanks for one favor ! My vexatious contests 
With the authorities of Pennsylvania, 
I trust, are ended. Congress will, no doubt, 
Confirm the report of honorable acquittal 
Rendered by its committee. I've resigned 
Command of this most turbulent of cities, 
And now shall have fiill leisure to untangle 
The knotted skein of my perplexed affairs. 

Enter a Jew. 

Jew. Your servant, sir ; I called to let you know 
That my poor purse is quite starved down and empty. 
I have not got the thousand pounds you want. 

Am. Poh ! nonsense, Mordecai. Your bond would bring 
A hundred thousand. 

Jew. Money, sir, is scarce. 

Besides, you owe me now five thousand pounds, 
All which is over due ; and which my wants 
Compel me to demand. 

Arn. Ha, ha, my man ! 

Good ! quite a joke, ha, ha ! 

Jew. It is no joke. 

Arn. My good friend, Mordecai, you're not alarmed ? 



Scene v.] ARNOLD. , 85 

The more bright guineas, Jew, you let me have, 
The more bright guineas, Jew, you'll get again, 
With that on which you fatten — usury. 

Jew. But I must have, at least, two thousand pounds, 
Out of the five, to-day. I am in need. 

Arn. You will not get them, sir, from me, I swear ! 
And I will have a thousand out of you. 
See here, skin-flint ! Congress still owes me thousands ; 
And from another 'source, within two weeks, 
I'm to receive some twenty thousand pounds. 
By the Jew's God, I swear ! or, if you choose, 
By Mammon, and his golden coat of mail ! 
Then I will pay you all, with usury. 
And fifty pounds beside. 

Jew. Well, be it so. 

Not knowing, general, what your strait might be, 
I called upon a brother, on my way. 
And borrowed the sum you asked. Have you the bond 1 

Am. All ready, sir. 

[The bond is exchanged for the moneys and exit Jew. 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv, Two more are waiting, massa. 

Am. Show them up singly, knave — one at a time. 

[Exit Servant. 

Enter the Captain of a Privateer, 

Walk in, walk in ; when came you into port ? 

Capt. This morning, sir. 

Arn. What luck 1 

Capt. Nothing to speak of. 

We've got a prize, but 'tis of little value ; 
Barely enough to pay expenses, sir. 

Arn. Damnation ! man, 'tis false ! 

Capt. False, do you say 1 

Am. O trouble not your sword, my fiery youth. 
I have one, too, you see. I did not mean 
Exactly as I said, so let it pass. 



ARNOLD. [Act II. 



A well-manned privateer upon the seas, 
With all the wealth that England has afloat 
To gather from, should earn ten thousand pounds 
A month. What is in fault ^ 

Capt. I know not, sir, 

Save that her merchantmen in all these seas 
Sail under convoy ; and 'tis difficult 
To cut them off. 

Arn. Why, man, your craft is armed — 

Armed to the teeth. Just let your irons talk, 
And blow these convoys to the devil, sir. 
Were not my late intent to take command 
Of our small naval force, now given up, 
In one short month, I'd clear these troubled seas 
Of British ships of war ; and our marine 
Should wallow with its freight of English wares. 
But courage, man ; cheer up, and try again ! 
If need be, I will take a bout myself, 
In our good ship ; and if I find not prizes. 
And take them, too, call me no longer Arnold. \_Exit Captain. 

Enter a Member of Congress. 

Good morrow, my dear friend ; I pray be seated. 

Mem. The charges, general, preferred against you, 
By the determined President and Council 
Of Pennsylvania, I fear are taking 
A very bad direction. They're referred 
To the Commander-in-Chief, to be adjudged 
By court-martial. 

Arn. Well, be it so, good sir. 

I am the sport of treachery and malice. 
My enemies will never be satisfied 
Until I am ruined. Let the blow descend ! 
What ! when I've been acquitted of these charges. 
By Congress' own committee, is their finding 
Thus to be thrown aside, and I subjected 
To this new process 1 What does all this mean 1 
Is it a plot to sacrifice my honor, 



Scene v.] ARNOLD. 37 

Or life, or both 1 Am I to be offered up 

By Congress, to make peace with Pennsylvania 1 

My wounds are not yet healed, which I have gained 

In my country's battles. If she needs my life, 

'Twill go out all the easier for the blood 

I've shed in her defense. 

Mem. Pi'^y, calm yourself, 

My noble sir ; this picture is too deep. 
You have strong friends,, who will not see you crushed, 
While effort will avail. 

Am. I know it, sir. 

And I am very grateful to my friends. 
So help me God ! I am an innocent man. 
While I did hold command at this vile post, 
I but obeyed my orders. I have wronged 
No citizen, nor authorized restrictions. 
Save such as were demanded by my orders, 
Or pressed upon me by the public safety. 
I care not what tribunal tries the case, 
So that the scales of justice are but even. 
On a fair level, I defy the world. 

Mem. Now, general, you are yourself again. 
Keep in good courage ! Clouds come every day, 
But tempests do not always follow them. 

[Exit Member op Congress. 

Am. Knave! 

Re-enter Servant. 
Any more 1 

Serv. No, massa, no. 

Am, Begone ! [Exit Servant. 

[Takes a letter from his pocket. 
My wife's dispatch to her old friend, Andre. 
Old England does not always turn and rend 
Her warmest friends. She pays her faithful soldiers. 
I'll do it. A fictitious signature. 
And hand disguised, will save me from all risk. 
'Tis but a feeler ; I need go no further. 

[ Writes on a slip of paper ^ and inserts it in the letter. 



ARNOLD. [ActII. 



Now speed thee to New York, and do thine errand. 

And I will see if every path, to me. 

Is hedged, beset with hounds, and dug with pitfalls. 

Exit Arnold. 

Scene VI. — The Same. The Drawing-room in Gen. Arnold's 
House. Evening. 

Enter Mrs. Arnold. 

Mrs. A. The pathway through this valley of existence 
Is not all strown with flowers. Desert sands, 
Where green things cannot grow, and leafless trees, 
With sharp protruding thorns, and threatening rocks, 
And precipices huge, thick intervene. 
O God ! support my strength, and hold my heart. 
And shed thy peace upon my husband's soul ! 
Ungrateful country ! He has not deserved 
The treatment that is meted out to him. 
For you, he has renounced his lawful king — 
For you, he's offered up his strength and blood ; 
And in return you sufler his good name 
To be defamed; withhold his just rewards, 
And drive him into frenzy. He, 'tis said, 
Is harsh, impetuous ; this may sometimes be. 
To me, he's ever kind. But some one comes ! 

[Exit Mrs. Arnold. 

Enter General Arnold and President Jay. 

Jay. Is this, then, your deliberate intention. 
To quit the service, and retire upon 
Your well-earned laurels ? 

Arn. Even so, my friend. 

I'm heartily disgusted with the envy, 
Malice, and plots, which have beset my footsteps. 
From my first eflTort in our common cause. 
And if my present purpose but succeed, 
And I am favored with a grant of land 
From your good State, New York, I'll beat my sword 



GENE VI.] ARNOLD. 



Into a pruning-hook, and sit me down 
To the pure banquet of domestic life. 

Jay. The New York delegation have all joined 
In seconding your wishes ; and have written 
Our local legislature on the subject. 
I also have addressed the governor, 
Urging such reasons as occurred to me, 
In favor of your prayer. I hope, dear sir, 
Your project may succeed to your desire. 

[Exeunt Arnold and Jay. 

Re-enter Mrs. Arnold. 

Mrs. A. Why goes he out again 1 The chill of night 
Will rack his wounds afresh. He's safest here — 
Here in these arms, which from all pain and trouble 
Would fondly shelter him. Hark ! what noise is that % 

[Sounds without f and shouts, 
A Voice. [Without.^ Down with the tyrant! pin him to the 

wall! 
Am. [ Without.'] Back, ruffians ! help ! ho, help ! 
Mrs. A. [With a shriek.] They're murdering him! 

[Totters to the window , then rings violently. 
Help! help! 

Enter several Servants. 

They murder ! — General ! — in the street ! 

[Exit Servants to the street. 
Am. [In the passage.] A pretty business ! mobbed ! my 
life assailed ! 
Arm ! every one of you ! I'll clear the street. 

Mrs. A. He's safe. [Sinks on thefioor. 

Re-enter Arnold. 

Am. Be not alarmed ! all's well, my love ! 

[Takes her in his arms. 
Awake ! The knaves have frightened her to death ! 
O God ! my dearest life, I'm safe, unharmed ! 
Look up, and see your Arnold ! 



40 ARNOLD. [Act II. 

Mrs. A. [Fahifly.] Dear, dear husband ! 

I'm well, quite well, since I am on your breast. [Scene closes. 

Scene VII. — Head-quarters of the American Army at Morris- 
town. Room occupied by the Military Tribunals. The Court 
in session. General Arnold present. 

Am. These charges I repel with all my soul, 
As being inconsistent with my life. 
When we were driven, by the acts of England, 
To take up arms in our most righteous war, 
I was surrounded with domestic joys — 
A growing family and thriving fortunes. 
Our country called ; and I, among the first, 
Unsheathed my sword, and rushed to her defense. 
From that dark hour to this, through every fortune, 
I have maintained her cause ; how well, my wounds 
Do testify to all. I've sacrificed, 
For her, my ease, my prospects, and my wealth. 
Honor and life alone remain to me. 
Through the long years of our disastrous struggle, 
While thus I've cheerfully endured and fought. 
It oft has been my cruel destiny 
To stir up envy in the breasts of others. 
I've been defamed, and hunted like a dog ; 
And my best efforts, by my enemies, 
Have been decried, and used to stab at me. 
But if the solemn judgment of the highest 
Tribunal in the land, the oft repeated 
Accord of Washington, the public verdict, 
The voice of the enemy and of the world, 
Count any thing, my efforts in behalf 
Of our dear country have not been in vain. 

President. The finding of this court acquits the accused 
Of all things criminal laid to his charge. 
But under the first and second counts, adjudges 
That he is guilty of imprudences. 
Considering his station and command. 



Scene VIII. ] ARNOLD. 41 

Our judgment is, and painful is the duty 

Imposed on us, that Major-general Arnold 

Be reprimanded by the Commander-in-Chief. \_Exeunt, 

Scene VIII. — The Saine. Plain lefore the Camp. 
Enter two Soldiers. 

\st Sol. The day is fair, as though it longed to see 

The spectacle so many eyes will dim — 

A brave and able officer disgraced. 

2d Sol. Think you that Washington approves the verdict 1 
Ist Sol. I know not; yet I think he does, or he 

Else would remit the sentence ; for no fear 

Of Arnold's enemies, of men, or states, 

Would ever swerve him from his sense of right. 

Enter Troops, who form in order ; and General Washington 
and Suite, and General Arnold, in front of them. 

Wash. Chastest of all professions is the soldier's. 
The shadow of a fault doth dim the luster 
Of his most brilliant actions. Inadvertence 
May cause the loss of name and reputation. 
Which are so hard to gain. I reprimand you, 
For having forgotten that, in the proportion 
As you had made your name and qualities 
Most fearful to the foe, you should have shown 
Just moderation toward our citizens. 
Again exhibit those transcendent parts, 
Which, heretofore, have placed you in the rank 
Of our most honored generals. I, myself, 
So far as it may be within my power. 
Will furnish you with opportunities 
To recover the esteem you have enjoyed. 

\Exeu7it Washington and Suite, and Troops, 

Am. Now, there is nothing left me but revenge ! \ExiU 



42 ARNOLD. IActIIL 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — Philadelphia. A Room in the House of the French 
Minister, M. de la Luzerne. 

Enter M. Luzerne and the Marquis de Lafayette. 

Laf. Yes, my good friend ; American affairs 
Are looking up. The troops from our own France 
Will soon be here to aid these ravaged States ; 
As fine an army, in its rank and file, 
And every just appointment, as the eye 
Of general need ever wish to see. 
A bold campaign is opening ; and, I trust, 
Before its close the enemy will meet 
A most decisive check. 

Luz, Brave General Arnold 

Has no command at present. I am pleased 
With his heroic action on the field ; 
And hope a post of honor may be his, 
Both fitted to his qualities, and shaped 
To soothe his wounded feelings. 

Laf. Without doubt, 

Such place will be assigned him. But, adieu, 
My chevalier. Duty and inclination 
Unite to urge me, at my best dispatch, 
On to Head-quarters. 

Luz. Make my compliments 

To your great chief, the noble Washmgton : 
And so, adieu. 

Laf. Adieu ! [Exit Lafayette. 

Luz. A noble youth ! 

Devoting heart, and wealth, and energies. 
To a most righteous purpose. Fit companion 
For him whom God hath sent upon the earth 
To shame its rulers j whose exalted name 



Scene!.] ARNOLD. 43 

Shall live, a beacon of transcendent blaze, 
While those of mighty conquerors and kings 
Are lost among the rubbish of the world. 

Enter General Arnold. 

My noble general, I beg be seated ; 
And tell me if it be within my power 
In any way to serve you. 

Am. Do I find you, 

Good chevalier, entirely at your leisure 1 

Luz. Entirely, general, and but too happy 
To yield it to your wishes. 

Am. Then, sir, frankly 

I'll make my errand known ; quite confident 
That ceremony would be out of place 
Between us two. Much of my history 
Is known to you. My services, my wounds, 
Have not escaped you. Other sacrifices. 
Made in behalf of my beloved country. 
To every eye are not so obvious. 
Suffice it, sir, that an abundant fortune — 
Abundant for my wants — has been expended 
In our great cause ; and I am penniless. 
In this, the crisis of my destiny, 
My country proves ungrateful. Congress, poisoned 
By faction, and the slanders of my foes. 
Neglects to reimburse me ; and unless 
A sum be raised to free my vexed aflfairs, 
I shall be forced disgracefully to quit 
The service, and retire. [Pauses.] And shall I add, 
What cannot have escaped your penetration. 
That, at this juncture, in these banded States, 
A friend to France, with power to make that friendship 
Efficient, might not be entirely useless '? 

Luz. Dear general, your words have greatly pained me. 
I am pained to know that you are in distress. 
What you would have of me, it would be easy 
For me to grant ; but 'twould degrade us both. 



44 ARNOLD. [Act III. 

When envoys of a foreign power give money, 

Or lend it, if you will, it ordinarily 

Is to corrupt. And thus they purchase friends, 

Without persuading ; buy, but don't secure ! 

The league between my country and your States 

Has for its basis policy most wise — 

Justice, and mutual interest, and good- will. 

In my important mission, my true, glory 

Demands that I fulfill it without intrigue, 

Or secret practices ; by force alone 

Of the conditions of our just alliance. 

Am. Enough! 

Luz. Dear general, I must say more. 

Because I love you and would win you back 
From your despondency. What bold exploits 
You have achieved ! what services you've rendered 
Your suffering country ! and what glory won 
To make your name immortal ! Let me say, 
To murmur at the acts of public bodies, 
Or persecutions of one's opponents. 
Is evidence of weakness, not of power. 
The great mind rests on its own dignity ; 
And conscious innocence is its support. 
Let me entreat you, my exalted friend, 
To rise above your enemies, and your own 
Dark thoughts and private griefs — to give your mind, 
Your sword, and courage, to your country only. 
This will be proof that you have been maligned, 
And will compel the plaudits of the world. 
Life is before you, and a brilliant field 
Of glory beckons your advance. Go on ! 
And bind still greener laurels round your brow ; 
And fix your name upon the scroll of fame — 
A star of honor, 'mong the wise and good ! 

Arn. I've listened, sir, as courtesy required. 
As courtesy requires, I thank you, sir. 
Advice is cheap ! I came as to a friend, 
For help in trouble. Sir, good-day ! 



Scene II.] ARNOLD. 46 

Luz. I beg 

Your pardon, general ! and much regret 
The occasion for this plainness ; for I would not 
Pain or offend one I so much admire. 

[Exit Arnold, and Lvzerne following him to the door. 

Scene II. — American Camp on the Hudson. The Road leading 
to King's Ferry. Troops in motion, in the direction of the 
Ferry. 

Enter two Officers. 

1*^ Off. This is the last division ; when it reaches 
The other shore, our army is all over. 

2d Off. And then for work ! This time, I trust, we make 
Sir Henry's quarters, where so long he's roosted. 
Too hot for him. Some blow like this is needed, 
To reinvigorate our cause, and cheer 
Our half-starved troops. With all their late privations, 
One would suppose their courage must have flagged. 
But see ! the moment the drum beats to arms. 
Each eye lights up, and every step is firm. 
And every breast is panting for the strife ! [Exeunt Officers. 

Enter General Washington and General Arnold. 

Wash. The enemy are threatening our allies, 
Ere they have time to land and fortify 
Themselves at Newport ; and so we are moving 
To menace, and, perhaps, attack New York, 
Should Clinton, in his zeal to meet the French, 
Expose that point. 

Am. Have I a place assigned me 1 

Wash. You vnll command the left wing of the army : 
A post of honor to which you are entitled 
By rank and merit. I'll see you soon again. 

[Exit Washington. 

Ar7i. Merit ! Thus am I thwarted in my plans, 
Once and again. But I'll achieve them yet. 



46 ARNOLD. [Act HI 

Enter one of Washington's Aids. 

I'm disappointed in the post assigned me. 

In truth, I am not fit for active duty. 

My wounds, with many pangs, are still complaining, 

And urge me to some quiet, for their sake. 

No place occurs to me, except West Point, 

Where I could do full justice to myself, 

And to the army. 

Aid, Is the Commander-in-Chief 

Acquainted with your wishes 1 

Am. No, not fully. 

Aid. I'll make them known to him. 

Arn, Thank you ! He comes. 

l^Exit Arnold. 

Re-enter Washington. 

Aid. Arnold, I find, is quite dissatisfied 
With the post assigned him. 

Wash. What post does he wish 1 

Aid. He named West Point ; and says his wounds unfit him. 
Tor active service. 

Wash. I am quite unable 

To comprehend his motives. Action is 
The breath of his existence ; and the field 
Of battle is his home, where none excel him. 
The strife he loves is gathering around us, 
And he applies for rest. But at this juncture, 
Both for his sake and for the country's good, 
I would retain him with me. Still, I wish 
To pleasure him. 

Aid. He may have various motives 

For the request he makes. His wounds unhealed. 
His late humiliation, and the charms 
Of his domestic sphere, now lighted up 
By a most lovely wife, may all combine 
To urge him, for the present, to inaction. 

Wash. Perhaps 'tis so. I've recently received 



ScENtin.] ARNOLD. 47 

Letters from members of Congress, and from others, 

Asking, or hinting at, this same appointment 

For Arnold ; but I could not think that he 

Desired such droning service. An express 

Has just arrived, with the intelligence 

That Clinton has abandoned his design 

To attack our allies ; so the period 

For active duty still remains uncertain. 

In view of all these facts, I do not know 

But Arnold's wishes should be gratified. 

You may inform him his request is granted. \_Exeunt. 

Scene III. — New York. A Room in the Quarters of Sir Henry 

Clinton. 

Enter Sir Henry Clinton, Major Andr£, and Colonel Beverly 
Robinson. 

Sir H. There is no doubt, there cannot be a doubt, 
But that our correspondent in the camp 
Of the enemy is Major-general Arnold. 
Though every step is cunningly disguised — 
The writing tortured, and the signature 
Fictitious, and the real object hidden 
Under the guise of traffic — who but one 
Who has access to all the secret springs 
And counsels of the rebels, could afford 
Such vital information as this sly 
Gustavus sends us 1 And besides, remember, 
When General Arnold was without command, 
After his trial and disgrace, our friend 
Gustavus, writes, " I soon shall be employed 
Again ;" and Arnold is employed again. 
He now commands the most important fortress 
In all America — West Point, a pile 
Of rock, impregnable as Gibraltar. 

And. You are right, 1 think. Sir Henry ; none but Arnold 
Could have access thus freely to the letters 
Of my fair correspondent, Mrs. Arnold. 



48 ARNOLD. [Act III. 

Sir H. Is she a partner in the general's plot 1 

And. Not she, I'll vouch ; though loyal, as you know, 
As are her family, she would scorn to do 
An act the Vorld might stigmatize as treason. 

Sir H. If it be West Point that is to be surrendered, 
Its vast importance to his majesty 
We cannot overestimate. The bargam 
Should be concluded, at whatever cost. 
Possession of that post secures to us 
Command of the North River ; and will greatly 
Facilitate our intercourse and action 
In concert wdth our troops in Canada. 
Besides, it cuts our enemy in twain — 
Severs New England from the other States — 
Hampers the foe in all his plans and acts ; 
And, in the present posture of affairs. 
Would strike a terrible, if not fatal, blow 
At the rebel cause. Just see how matters stand : 
Upon our right is the army of the French ; 
Just at our left the Continentals lie ; 
And they are planning for a speedy j unction, 
To attack and crush us here. Meanwhile, West Point 
Is the great storehouse of supply, where arms. 
Warlike munitions, and stores, for both these armies, 
Are gathering. Think you, if these should fall 
Into our hands, w^hen added to the other 
Advantages I've named, that Washington, 
With all his prudence, could retrieve his cause % 
What think you, Robmson % 

Rob. The object, sir. 

In my esteem, is all that you regard it. 
The fall of that strong fortress, with the adjuncts 
Of great advantage, as you've set them forth, 
Upon the heel of the defeat and ruin 
Of Gates's army in the Carolinas — 
Just at the moment, too, when swelling hope 
And expectation from the French alliance 
Are at their highest spring — can hardly fail 



Scene III.] ARNOLD. 49 

To cool the warmest heart among the rebels — 
Blot out their foolish dream of independence — 
And lay these colonies as suppliants 
At the king's feet. My services, Sir Henry, 
You may command to carry out this project. 

Sir H. All things are ready ; vessels are prepared 
Of proper draft, well manned ; and troops are stationed 
Ready for motion at a moment's warning. 
And over all, the vail of secrecy 
Has carefully been thrown. The troops suppose 
Their destination is the Chesapeake. 
But ere a move be made, it is important, 
For many reasons, that an interview 
Be had with Arnold. Certainties, so deemed, 
Must be made wholly certain. We must know 
That Arnold is the man ; and the surrender 
Of his command, and its dependencies, 
The thing he has in view ; and all his plans 
For doing it with safety. And besides, 
For obvious reasons, he demands to meet 
An agent fully authorized by me. 
Acts, such as he proposes, have their price. 
He even names his man, and says, my friend, 
Andre, must meet him on the neutral ground, 
At some convenient point, to close the matter. 
Now, Colonel Robinson, you are acquainted 
With every nook and cranny of the country : 
Arnold's Head-quarters are at your own house, 
I think, or what of right is yours ? 

Fwh. That's true. 

Sir H. On this account, as well as for the reason 
Of fitness, I desire to associate 
You, in this delicate and important mission, 
With my good Iriend, Andr6. 

Roi. Most cheerfully 

I undertake it ; and at any moment. 
Should there be need, will offer up my life 
In the king's cause. 



60 ARNOLD. [Act HI. 

Sir H. Well, then, the affair is settled. 

But let me add to both a word of caution — 
Nay, a command. Whatever may occur. 
Pass not the enemy's lines, and make no change 
Of dress ; and, more than all, receive no papers. [ExeuTiic 

Scene IV. — The Highlands, near AVest Point. A Room in Gen- 
eral Arnold's Quarters at Robinson's House. Evening. 

Enter General Arnold and Mrs. Arnold. 

Arn. The States, my dear, can but expect disaster, 
While they intrust their troops to the command 
Of boys and cowards. General Gates is both : 
Quite old enough in years, but still a child 
In the true art of war. He fights his battles 
Expert on paper, as he did at school ; 
And if his enemy would but keep quiet 
Till he could bring his marvelous plans to bear, 
No doubt he would succeed. Mere theory. 
With all the figures that were ever summed. 
And plans of battles that were ever drawn, 
And conned in camp, will not retrieve reverses, 
Or make available the varying chances 
Of every field, like a commander's eye 
And action at the moment. My old friend 
Should first forget what he has ever learned, 
And quit his compasses, and head his men. 
In Carolina, had he done as I, 
When, through the wilderness of Kennebec, 
I led my army into Canada — 
Took the forefront of danger and of toil, 
Hungered and thirsted with, and for, his men, 
Struggled, contrived, and bled, to win success, 
He would not now be overwhelmed with shame. 
And all his northern laurels turned to ashes. 
By such a terrible and bloody rout, 
From scarcely half his numbers. 

Mrs. A. Nothwithstanduig 



Scene IV.] ARNOLD. 51 

The French alliance, and the troops and ships 
That France has hither sent, it seems to nie, 
The present is a very gloomy time 
With the American cause. 

Ar7i. Gloomy, indeed ! 

The cause is lost ; or, if not wholly lost. 
The next thing to it. Nothing could be worse. 
More suicidal, than this French alliance. 
From which ao much is hoped. France is our foe, 
Our ancient, natural, eternal foe, 
From whom we've naught to hope, but much to fear. 
Her mere embrace alone w^ould smother us ! 
But what is worse, this foreign aid, so called, 
Has acted like a subtle opiate 
To kill -our own activity and strength. 
France takes the field — America, forsooth ! 
Has nothing more to do. Congress, and States, 
And people, seek repose ; and in deep sleep 
Waste the propitious moment for success ; 
While their forgotten armies, starved and naked, 
Are dwindling fast away. 

Mrs. A. At such a time, 

How happy am I that the peace and quiet 
Of these stern hills, and yon embattled fortress. 
With all the romance of these glorious Highlands, 
Are ours. We seem in paradise, away 
From all the plots and counterplots of life, 
And the dread chances of the battle-field, 
Which still must give each loving wife the heartache, 
However well her temper may be steeled 
To play the soldier's bride. I realize. 
Now, something of the charms of rural life, 
As in blest visions of delight they came 
Upon my fancy, when you thought to found 
Your settlement for soldiers at the West. 

Aril. Ah, that was given up, my gentle love. 
For botli our sakes. We've seen too much of life, 
The pomp and dazzle of the busy world. 



62 ARNOLD. [Act IH. 

To be content with cottages and cows. 

If fortune smiles, 'twill be my future pride 

To place you in that galaxy of stars 

Where you were born to shine, and to outsliine. 

Mrs. A. Be it as you will, my husband ; while with you, 
And our blessed babe, in any spot, I feel 
The hope of life is answered. But the night 
Is wearing on : shall we not soon retire ? 

Arn. Go you, my love, and I will shortly follow. 
Some little business matters claim from me 
A brief half hour. [Exit Mrs. Arnold. 

Ah, she does not suspect 
The fearful drama in her husband's life, 
Just to be played. Fearful ! yes, if it fail — 
It shall not fail ! A stain upon my name 
Will look to her like ink-s]DOts on the sun ; 
And that vile word some may apply to me 
Will grate upon her music-loving ears 
Like the saw's outcry in the surgeon's room. 
That name ! But why should I, M^ho oft have braved 
Death in a thousand shapes, shrink from a name 1 
I am no traitor, and shall be no traitor ! 
The treason was, when we first drew the sword 
In this unholy struggle with our king : 
And thus with Washington, and Gates, and Greene, 
And all the rebel rabble of these States, 
I am a traitor now ; and so shall be. 
Till with one just and necessary act 
I cleanse myself; while they remain attainted. 
/ entered on this struggle to obtain 
Redress of grievances, not independence. 
England has offered all we ever asked. 
Which we refuse ; and wickedly, instead. 
League with her ancient enemy, the French, 
To pull her down, and trail her in the dust. 
And yet, would that my country had not wrung 
My love of her all dry ! I could have died 
A traitor for her sake ! But human nature 



Scene IV.] ARNOLD. 53 

Cannot endure forever the infliction 

Of injuries undeserved. These States have had 

My strength, my blood, my manhood. In return, 

They give me wrong, and poverty, and scorn. 

I owe my country nothing. I've repaid 

All that I ever had a hundred-fold. 

The ledger balance foots upon my side. 

The debt of consanguinity is canceled 

By her ingratitude. She turns on me. 

And of her own free will becomes my foe ; 

And her oflicial minions blacken me, 

Steal on my track, and hunger for my life. 

In self-defense I am compelled to act ; 

And if compelled to act, I, like myself, 

Will strike a blow that this upstart Republic, 

And my relentless enemies, will feel. 

My children ! hapless things ! Their father's name, 

Like the fabled shirt, which could not be removed, 

Will cling to them, for good or ill, forever ! 

And my sweet wife, how tender is her love ! 

How can I frighten her with dreadful deeds, 

Which I am fain to hide in hideous night 1 

A Voice. Beware ! 

Am. Who's there 1 

[Goes into the passage, and returns. 
I find no one ; and still, 
I cannot be deceived. I heard a voice ! 
A spy is set to catch my idle words ! 
Villain ! who are you 1 Speak ! 

Voice. Beware ! beware ! 

Am. The voice is like my mother's. Can the dea:d 
Speak to the living % The occasion's fit ; 
The time is opportune : it may be so. 
Old women tell us that uneasy spirits 
Delight to meddle in the affliirs of earth. 
And vex their friends. When I, a sniveling child, 
Clung to my mother's skirt, I then obeyed her. 



54 ARNOLD. [Act III. 

I have outgro\Yii those days, and now command, 
In my just turn and right. 

Re-enter Mrs. Arnold, in her night-dress. 

Mrs. A. My husband, dear, 

I fear you are not well. 

Am. I am quite well. 

Mrs. A. Your troubled voice did reach me in my room. 
Pray, let me soothe your unquiet thoughts to rest. 
The night is waning fast ; come, go with me ! 

[Exit Mrs. Arnold, leading him off. 

Scene V. — Dobbs' Ferry, [East side of the River). 
Enter Major Andre and Colonel Beverly Robinson. 

And. I trust I am a soldier, my dear colonel ! 
But skulking round the purlieus of the foe. 
To meet a traitor and mature a treason, 
I deem no part of a soldier's proper duty. 
At least I find my feelings quite at war 
With such an act : I loathe the part I play. 

Roh. The vast importance of our enterprise 
Is worth some risk. 

And. It is not that I fear ; 

At least, not risk of person, for I go 
Cheerfully into battle. 

Roh. Then let the hope 

Of great advantage to our honored king, 
And rich rewards, and fame, won to yourself. 
Cheer up your heart. 

And. I covet not such fame ! 

I would not have my name linked with a traitor's ; 
And thus sent down the records of all time. 
But enough of this. I am here, and Avill acquit 
Myself as best I may. The cii'cumstances 
Of the affair have brought me here perforce : 
To them I yield, and leave my well-meant acts 
To the judgment of the world. A better theme 



Scene v.] ARNOLD. 55 

Is the wild beauty of this noble river, 

Bordered with gentle slopes, and frowning peaks, 

And horrid chasms. Yon wall of Palisades, 

Nature erected in an hour of sport. 

To shame our pigmy forts. And, to the north, 

What piles of hills, as terrible as night, 

And specters of the fancy, she has thrown 

In grand effect together ! But, my friend, 

Do you see yon speck upon the golden sheen 

Of Tappan Bay 'i Pray, bring your glass to bear ; 

And try to make it out. 

Rob. It is a boat 

With rowers ; and upon my life, I think, 
- Arnold is in it. Yes ; I know him well ! 
'Tis he, and headed hither. Thus is solved 
One main point of our problem, if it needed 
Further solution. [The report of a cannon is heard. 

And. What is that 1 

Rob. By Heaven ! 

Our saucy rascals have let fly a shot 
At him. I saw it skip along the wave. 
Just 'scaping his frail boat ; and there they go ! 
Our gun-boats in full chase ! Unfortunate ! 
We should have thought of this. If nothing w^orse, 
They'll capture him ; and thus our game is up. [Firing con- 

Aud. No ; he is pushing for the other shore, tinues. 

And will escape. 

Rob. Perhaps so, if he bear 

A life that's charmed against the power of balls, 
And can impart the virtue to his craft. 

And. He's near the shore already. See ! he springs 
Into the water, followed by his men. 
And gains the bank. 

Rob. He's safe ; but see the boat ! 

His foot had scarcely left it, when 'twas struck 
By a point-blank, and riddled to a wreck. 

And. Of course, our mission for to-day is ended. 
No private meeting, after such a public . 



66 ARNOLD. [Act III. 

Untimely misadventure, can be had: 

And so our plans must take some different shape. [Exeunt. 

Scene VI. — The Highlands. A Room in J. H. Smith's House, 
Enter General Arnold and J. H. Smith. 

Am. There seems a strange fatality opposed 
To any meeting with this Anderson. 
The other day, in a well-laid attempt 
To get possession of the information 
He promised me, I found myself beset 
By the enemy's gun-boats down in Tappan Bay ; 
And had a close escape of life and limb ; 
While yesterday, in a like design, you failed 
!For lack of boatmen. Were the matter not, 
As I conceive, of weighty public moment, 
I'd give it up. The Vulture still, I see, 
Like a good water-bird, maintains her place 
At Teller's Point. Call in your stubborn knaves ! 
And I will see what can be done with them. 

[Smith goes out, and re-enters with Samuel Colquhoitn. 
Smith has informed you of the little service 
I want of you. In times like these, young man, 
Every good citizen must hold himself 
Ready to serve his country at her call. 
No danger will attend the enterprise ; 
And for the service you shall be rewarded. 

Sam. C. I've told Mr. Smith, sir, that I could not go. 
Last night, all night, I rode express ; and am 
Too much fatigued. Besides, I do not like 
Running the guard-boats in the night, and holding 
Communications with the enemy. 

Smith. I shall go, too, and run an equal risk. 

Sam. C. To-morrow, with a flag, I'll not object. 

Am. That will be all too late. There is a man 
On board the Vulture I must see to-night. 
The business is im^portant to the country ; 
And if you are, as you profess, a friend, 
You camiot hesitate. 



ScEjfE VII.] ARNOLD. 57 

Enter Joseph Colquhoun. 

Sam. C. I do not see 

The great necessity to hide this matter 
So closely in the dark ! 

Am. It is no secret. 

It is well known to all the officers. 
A boat has been provided by Major Kierse, 
And lies all snug for you in Haverstraw. 
The captains of the guard-boats understand 
The enterprise. They have the countersign ; 
And are directed not to interrupt 
The passage of the boat. Still, it is needful 
To conduct the aflair by night, lest the transaction 
Become divulged ; and the great public good, 
Which hinges on its prudent management, 
Thus be defeated. [The brothers consult aside. 

Sam. C. Sir, we cannot go. 

Jos. C. We are right willing, general, to serve . 
Our country at all proper times and business. 
We cannot do what you desire to-night. 

Am. See here, you rascals ! I mistrust you both. 
If you remain so obstinate as this, 
I must include you with the disaffected, 
And place you in arrest. 

Sam. C. We will obey 

Your orders, general. 

Am. And go with Smith 1 

Jos. C. Yes, sir, if you command it. 

Am. Well, my lads, 

I'm glad at last you've found your proper senses. 
So now be off, at once ! Smith, lose no time ! \^Exeunt. 

Scene VII. — The Same. The Cah'n of the Vulture Sloop-of-war, 

Night. 

Enter Captain Sutherland, Major Andre, and Col. Robinson, 

And. Is Arnold making game of us 1 

Eob. No, no ! 



58 AKNOLD. [Act III. 

He's forced to move with caution ; and as yet 
Has found no proper time to get on board. 

And. Well, how explain the outrage on our flag 1 

Suth. Which was accomplished by as mean a trick, 
And violation of the rules of war. 
As ever were devised. 

Roh. The flag displayed 

At Teller's Point, the firing on our flag, 
Sent in return, I do not understand. 
But one advantage has grown out of it. 
Arnold is made aware that you are here. 
By Sutherland's remonstrance, written out. 
And countersigned by one John Anderson f 

And. True ! Still am I impatient. Twice have I 
Come from New York on this unpleasant errand • 
And now am wasting out my second night 
On board this ship, with very little prospect 
Of any good result. [A noise is heard on deck. 

Watch. {Without.'] Who's there? Where bound? 

{Reply not understood. 

Watch. Villains ! how dare you board us in the night 1 
How dare approach his majesty's armed ships, 
Hid by the coward's curtain ? You bloody knaves ! 
Come alongside ! 

Suth. Boy ! 



Enter a Servant. 

See who's come ! Conduct 
The person hither. 

And. I will step aside. [Exit ANDRi:. 

Re-enter Servant with J. H. Smith. 

Roh. Your servant, Mr. Smith ; we are old friends. 
Smith. I'm glad to see you, colonel ; hope you're well ? 
Roh. Quite well. 
Smith. I have a letter for you, colonel. 

[Robinson reads the letter. 
Here are the passports. 



Scene VII. ARNOLD. 59 

[Robinson examines the passports, and retires to the other 
end of the Cabin, where he is joined hy Andre. They arc 
concealed from Smith ly intervening objects, who is also 
kept occupied in conversation hy Sutherland. 

Rob. Arnold has not come ; 

But sends for you to meet him on the shore. 

And. Well, I will go. 

Rob. I would not go ; the risk 

Is quite too great. No sense of public duty 
Can call on one of your exalted rank 
To expose himself to a death of infamy. 

And. Dear colonel, I have weighed the matter well. 
Though I had hoped that Arnold might have come 
On board tlie Vulture, and have met me here — 
Though I dislike the business I am on, 
Still have I come to the determination 
To take all risks the matter may impose, 
And press it to an issue. I will go. 

Rob. Well, as you will. I've given my opinion 
Fully against it, and must hold it so. 

[Andre conceals his regimentals under a. large cloak, and 
they rejoin Sutherland. Robinson introduces Andr6 to 
Smith under the najne of Anderson. 

I feel a little out of health to-night. 

And fear exposure ; and, besides, need rest. 

My good friend Anderson will go with you, 

Who is as well acquainted with the business 

As I am ; and can give all information, 

And make the arrangements which may be desired, 

As well as I could. 

Smith. Let us, then, be off. 

Suth. What craft have you ] 

Smith. A comfortable boat, 

With two good rowers. 

Suth. Stay, and I will send 

One of my boats to tow you, duly armed. 



60 ARNOLD. [Act IH. 

Smith. No ; the less noise, the better. 

A7id. Captain, no. 

I thank you for the offer; but our safety 
Is doubtless in concealment, not in arms. [^Exeimt. 

Scene VIII. — The Same. Foot of Cioxe Momitam. Bushes and 
dwarf Trees here and there. Midnight. 

Enter General Arnold. 

Am. Hark ! 'Twas the night-bird screeching from his rock. 
He's gorged himself, and still is not at rest. 
I wonder if he dreams of enemies, 
Plots, and revenge, of treason, and the gallows 1 
Sees specters in his sleep, and pecks at them 1 
Sees swinging o'er him in the lambent sky, 
Sleeping or waking, when the night is on. 
The gaping noose? Ugh ! Dreams like those are sweet. 
And fit for such a dreadful night as this. 
Unquiet world ! Ungrateful, horrid woiid ! 
There is no rest nor justice ! 
[He sits down on a rock, and presses his forehead with his hands. 

This dread hour 
Stands out the pivot of my destiny. 
"Why should I shrink from it ? Have I not said it ? 
Does Arnold shrink, who never shrunk before. 
And halt at his own purpose 1 [Thunder and lightning. 

My head, crack ! crack ! 
And the deep sockets of my thirsty eyes 
Burn like a forge ! [Rises and gazes ahout. 

All round is crimson red ! 
The air, the staring night, have turned to blood ! 
The surging clouds wash in it as they go, 
And the grim river is a trough of fire ! 

A Voice. Beware! 

Arn. Hurrah ! the devils, too, are coming ! 

Enter Ghost. 
Ghost. My son ! 



Scene VIII.] ARNOLD. 61 

Am. Begone ! old witch ! 

[Ghost, in a suppUcathig attitude, vanishes. 
[Thunder.] God of the thunder ! 

Strike ! strike ! and end this struggle with my life ! 
My mother's S2)irit, and my own good angel, 
If ever I had one, try to pull me back ; 
While, set against them on the other side, 
A hundred devils goad me to advance. 
Shall I retreat ? It is too late ; besides. 
The coward's part I have not learned to act. 
On ! on ! my only refuge is ahead ; 
And gold, at least, I win. I will go on ! 
And, like myself, I'll brave my destiny. 
Though hell, with all its demons, block my path ! 
Hush ! An oar grates upon the shallow tide, 
And footsteps press the bank. Who's there 1 

Smith. [In the darkness.] Congress. 

Enter Smith, and Andre, disguised as Anderson. 

Smith. Here is the person you desired to see. 
Am. Ah, Mr. Anderson — am I correct 1 
And. The same; and do I speak to General Arnold? 
Am. Yes, I am General Arnold. Come with me ! 

[Exeunt Arnold and Andre into the mountain, and 
Smith to the hoat. 



ACT TV 



Scene I. — The Highlands. A Room in Smith's House. Morning. 

Enter General Arnold and Major Andre, the last with papers 

in his hand. 

Am. An equal rank I must insist upon. 
And now, I think, our business is completed. 

And. All finished, sir. These papers will refresh 
My recollection, should it prove obscure. 



ARNOLD. [Act IV. 



Am. I trust you will get safely to New York, 
And doubt not that you will : the risk is slight. 
But, for the greater safety of those papers, 
Place them within your boots ; and if mischance 
By any means should happen, you will see. 
For both our sakes, how very needful 'tis 
That they should be destroyed. 

And. I will be prudent. 

Bound with a weight, in case of accident, 
The river's rocky depths would hold them safe. 
Hark ! what is that '? 

Am. 'Tis the report of cannon. 

[Both go in alarm to the window. 

And. They're firing on the Vulture. See ! she's struck, 
And all in flames ! 

Am. No, no ; 'tis the reflection 

Of the bright sun. But what means Livingston, 
In sending a detachment to attack her, 
Without my orders ? A pretty business, truly ! , 

And. See, she is moving to get out of range, 
And dropping down the river. 

Am. This may change 

The mode of your return ; and make it needful 
To go by land, which will be quite as safe. 
If not as expeditious. 

And. No ; I'll get 

On board the Vulture, and return in her. 

Am. Well, as you will ; and so, my friend, farewell ! 

And. Farewell ! [Exit Arnold. 

An unpropitious future seems 
To hang in sad portents o'er this adventure. 
Would that 'twere ended, or had never been. 

Enter Smith. 

Are all things ready, at the early night, 
To go on board the vessel 1 

Smith. No, the attempt 

Would be too hazardous ; you must go by land. 



Scene IL] ARNOLD. 63 

And. The Vulture has resumed her old position : 
It seems to me the easiest, safest, best, 
To go hence as I came. Have you consulted 
The boatmen ? 

Smith. No, 'twere altogether useless ; 

The firing has alarmed them. 

And. If reward 

Would change their minds, and satisfy your scruples, 
I will bestow it freely. 

Smith. No, sir, no. 

Your best way, I am fully satisfied, 
Is to return by land. I will go with you, 
And see you safely to the British lines. 

And. Where are the passports 1 

Smith. Here : the general 

Has furnished passports, both to pass the boats, 
And guards and stations, to White Plains ; and one 
For yourself alone, in case it should be needed. 

And. Well, I must yield to my necessities, 
And run the chances of my evil hour. [Exeunt, 

Scene IL — The Country, near Crompond. Night. 

Enter a Patrol. 

Pat. Who's there'? 

Smith. [U7iseen.] Friends. 

Pat. Stand ! 

Enter Smith. 
Smith. Sir, who commands the party ? 

Pat. Captain Boyd. 

Enter Captain Boyd. 

Boyd. Who are you 1 

Smith. My name is Smith. 

Boyd. Where are you from 1 

Smith. The west side of the river. 

Boyd. Where are you going, sir, and what's your business? 



64 ARNOLD. [Act IV. 

Smith. There are three of us : Mr. Anderson, 
My negro servant, and myself. By order 
Of General Arnold, we are going down 
Near to White Plains, to get intelligence. 
I have a pass, and would not be detained. 

Boyd. How far do you go to-night 1 

Smith. To Major Strang's, 

Or Colonel Drake's. 

Boyd. But Strang is not at home ; 

And Drake has left the country. I must see 
Your passport, sir. Strike me a light. 

[TAe Patrol hums some powder hy means of a flint, and 
lights a torch. The passport is examined. 
All right ! 

\Leads Smith aside. 
Now, my dear fellow, let me ask of you, 
In confidence, the nature of the business 
You have in hand, that you expose yourself 
To this night-travel on a dangerous road. 
Infested by the Cow-boys, and so near 
The enemy's lines ] 

Smith. Our business I've explained 

Already. 'Tis to gain intelligence 
Of great importance to the public service. 
We are to meet a person near White Plains. 
Hence the necessity of expedition. 

Boyd. But wait till morning ; for, if you go on, 
I warn you that the chances are quite equal 
That the to-morrow's sun will find you hanging. 
All three of you, upon some scraggy pine. 

Smith. And is the risk so great 1 

Boyd. It is, indeed ! 

Turn back, and pass the night at Andreas Miller's. 

Smith. I Mall consult with Mr. Anderson. [Exit Smith. 

Boyd. Ah, what can all this mean % A cunning dog ! 
Lies like a trooper ; but his pass is good. 
'Tis Arnold's proper hand and signature : 
That caimot be gauisayed. 



Scene III.] ARNOLD. 65 

Re-enter Smith, with Andre in disguise. 

And. And is the road 

So quite unsafe ? It is of great importance 
That we go on to-night. 

Smith. Which road is safest 1 

Boyd. Both roads are perilous : that by North Castle, 
Perhaps the least so ; that through Tarrytown, 
Is subject to the constant depredations 
Of prowling bodies of the Lower Party. 
By daylight you will stand a better chance 
To learn the movements of the bloody villains, 
And to avoid them. 

Smith. We will take your counsel. 

And trespass on the hospitality 
Of Andreas Miller, for a single night. \^Exeunt. 

Scene III. — The Woods hordering the Road near Tarrytown. 

Enter Paulding, Van Wart, and Williams, who crouch on the 

ground. 

Paul. No game abroad to-day. 

Will. 'Tis early yet : 

We'll head some cattle, ere the sun go down, 
Or something better. 

Van W. We will guard the road, 

At least for one day, and prevent the Cow-boys 
From running down supplies to feed the red-coats. 

Will. There comes a gentlemanly-looking man. 
He is well dressed, with overcoat and boots. 
You'd better stop him, and find out his business. 
Unless you know him, Paulding. 

[Paulding advances and raises his firelock, 

Paul. Stand ! Dismount ! 

Where are you going % 

Enter Andre, in disguise. 

And. Gentlemen, I hope 

You're of our party 1 



66 ARNOLD. [Act IV. 

Paul. Which, sir, do you mean % 

And. The Lower Party. 

Paul. Yes, yes ; true, we are. 

And. I am a British officer, abroad 
On most important business ; and I trust 
You'll not detain me long. 
[Exhibits his watch, as a token that he is a person of consequence. 

Paul. Sir, come this way ! 

And. My God ! To get along, I must submit 
To any thing. [Laughs, and exhibits his pass from Arnold. 

To tell you, sirs, the truth, 
I am going to Dobbs Ferry, there to meet 
A person, and procure intelligence 
For General Arnold ; and if I'm detained, 
'Twill get you into trouble, and derange 
The general's plans. 

Paul. [Examining the pass.^ Your name is Anderson 1 ^ 

And. Yes, Anderson. 

Paul. I hope, sir, no offense. 

We are not robbers ; and if you are what 
You seem to be, there will no harm befall you. 
But spies, and Tories, and the bloody Cow-boys, 
Infest this road. In short, sir, w^e must search you. 
Take off your clothes. 

[Andre is stripped of his hat, overcoat, coat, and waist- 
coat, and is narrowly searched. 

Will. Now, sir, pull off your boots. 

[Payers are found within his stockings, which Paulding 
exainines. 

Paul. He is a spy ! You may put on your clothes. 

Will. What will you give us, sir, to let you go 1 

And. I'll give you money — any sum you'll name. 

Will. A hundred guineas, and your watch and horse 1 

And. Yes, yes ; and send the guineas to you here. 

Van W. Wouldn't you give more ? 

And. Yes, any, any sum, 

Or any quantity of merchant's goods. 
And send them to you at whatever place 



Scene IV.] ARNOLD. G7 

You'll name ; or stay myself a piisoner 

Till they are sent. 

Paul. We cannot let you go. 

Ten thousand guineas would not buy you off? 
Will. But wouldn't you like to get away 1 
And. I would. 

But ask me no more questions, if you please : 

Convey me to your officer. To him 

I will reveal my purpose and my rank. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — North Castle. A Room in the Quarters of Lieut.- 
CoLONEL Jameson. 

Enter Colonel Jameson ; in his hand the papers taken from An- 
dre, ivhich he examines. 

Jam. Most strange and unaccountable ! Minute 
Plans of West Point — the thickness of the walls, 
The strong parts and the weak, the force of guns, 
The number of the troops for its defense, 
And their disposal to repel attack — 
Besides, a general scheme of the campaign. 
As contemplated by the Board of War : 
In the handwriting, unequivocal. 
Of General Arnold ! Is he plotting treason "? 
Nay, nay ; they have been stolen, or it is 
Some plot of hell, schemed by his enemies. 
'Tis very strange. [Goes to the door.^ Bring in the prisoner ! 

Enter Major Andre, disguised. 

How came you by these papers % 

And. I'll explain 

That to the general, to his satisfaction. 

Jam. What, General Arnold 1 

And. He, if I mistake not, 

Commands this post, in chief. 

Jam. This writing, sir, 

Is it not Arnold's % 

And. That, sir, he can answer 



68 ARNOLD. [Act IV. 

Tar better than myself. If you desire 

An explanation of this mystery, 

Go with me to him. I will give it there. 

Jam. That cannot be. [Goes 1o the cloor.~\ Call me Lieu- 
tenant Allen ! [He writes a Irief note. 

Enter Lieutenant Allen. 

Lieutenant, I commit this prisoner 

To you. With proper guard and diligence 

Conduct him to Head-quarters ; and deliver 

This note to General Arnold. I rely 

On your well-known discretion and dispatch. 

[Exit Allen with Andre. 
I am perplexed, and in a world of doubt ! 
Who is this Anderson 1 The honest fellows 
Who captured him declare he said, at first. 
He was a British officer. No doubt. 
He thought them Tories. Then, he was employed 
To gain intelligence for General Arnold. 
These pregnant papers certainly contain 
Intelligence enough. The enemy 
Would give for them a thousand British lives ! 
They hide some mystery I cannot fathom. 
I'll send them to the General-in-Chief, 
And Washington himself shall judge of them. 

[Gives an order at the door ; writes a hasty note ; in- 
closes the papers, and addresses the packet to Wash- 
ington. 

Enter an Express. 

Mount a swift horse, and ride with all dispatch 
To the Commander-in-Chief; and when you find him, 
Give him this packet. Strike for Peekskill first, 
Thence you will meet him on the eastern road. 
Or hear of him, as he returns from Hartford. [Exit Express. 

[Jameson paces the room uneasily. 



Scene IV.] AENOLD. 



Enter Major Tallmadge. 
So you are back at length. I've sadly needed 
Your counsel on a matter of some moment. 

Tall. You've got a spy, I learn. 

Jam. I know not what 

A Mr. Anderson has been brought in — 

Tall. What were the papers taken from his boots "? 

Jam. Plans of West Point, with full particulars 
Of all its armaments and regulations. 
And, what is most surprising of the whole, 
They're obviously in Arnold's own handwriting. 
I've sent them by express to Washington. 

Tall. And where' s the prisoner % 

Jam. I have dispatched him, 

Under a guard, to Arnold. 

Tall. Gracious God ! 

To Arnold] 

Jam. Yes ; why not 1 You cannot doubt him 1 

Tall. I do ! I must ! There's treason, Jameson, 
There's treason brewing — black, infernal treason — 
Depend upon it ! 

Jam. Tallmadge, you're too fast — 

Too fast by half. I cannot doubt the general. 
Who has shown more devotion to our cause — 
Made greater sacrifices '? Who among us 
Has fought more bravely — who more freely bled % 

Tall. That is quite true ; and still men do turn traitors- 
Men high in rank, as brave, even patriotic, 
As General Arnold. The world's history 
Shows many such, who, for revenge or gold, 
Have sold themselves — have taken to the market 
Their every thing — fame, friends, and fatherland. 
This case may not be so, but it looks dark ; 
So dark, I'm willing to assume it so, 
And act accordingly. 

Jam. I cannot think it. 

Tall. I'll take the whole responsibility. 
If treason is on foot, as I believe, 



70 ARNOLD. [Act IV. 

The country is in peril. It may need 
Action, immediate and vigorous, 
To save the State. 

Jam. I cannot think with you. 

At any rate, I will not authorize 
Measures to throw suspicion over Arnold. 

Tall. You recollect the letter, some days since, 
Received by me from him, requesting me, 
In case a Mr. Anderson should come 
Within the lines, to furnish him a guard. 
And send him to Head-quarters. Some connection, 
It would appear from this, exists between them. 
The papers found on Anderson, you say, 
Are Arnold's own handwriting. Pray, remember 
What those same papers are, and that this man. 
When taken prisoner, had almost reached 
The outposts of the enemy. I ask- 
Nay, I entreat you, colonel, to remand 
Him back again. I beg you will not bring 
The two conspirators together, if 
Conspirators they be ! 

Jam. If he's brought back. 

What can be done with him 1 This lower post 
Is subject to attack at any hour. 
Here we should run the risk of his recapture. 

Tall. Send him to Sheldon, sir, at Lower Salem. 

Jam. Ay, that might do ; and thus we avoid the danger, 
From roving parties of the enemy, 
In sending him up the river to West Point. 
So much I'll yield you : order his return. 
But Allen shall keep on to General Arnold ; 
And through him I'll report, as is my duty, 
The capture and attendant circumstances. [Exeunt. 

Scene V. — Lower Salem. The Room in which Major Andr^ is 
confined. Andre writing at a table. He folds and super- 
scribes a letter. 
And. Escape is hopeless now. The expectation, 



Scene v.] ARNOLD, 71 

Briefly indulged, of being sent to Arnold, 

Is dissipated ; while those fiital papers 

Found on my person, I am frankly told, 

Have been dispatched to General Washington, 

Further concealment of myself is useless — 

As puerile as vain. I will stand forth 

In my own proper form ; and meet my fate 

As best becomes my country and my fame. 

My eyes are wxary with the vain attempt 

To penetrate the future, and discover 

What that poor fate may be. The exalted chief, 

Into whose hands I fall, is said to be 

Magnanimous as brave ; and on his justice 

I rest my case, appealing to high Heaven 

To judge my heart. 

Enter Major Tallmadge. 

Allow^ me to request 
That you will forw^ard this communication, 
(First reading it), to General Washington. [Tallmadge peruses 

Tall. Major Andre ! the letter. 

And. Ah, yes. 

Tall. [Taking him hy the hand.] You have, dear sir, 
My warmest sympathy for your misfortune. 
My God ! And is it so ? I was prepared 
For some unapt and strange development, 
But could not dream of this. 

And. I thank you, sir, 

For your kind sentiments ; and w^herever duty 
May place me, though we should hereafter meet 
In the rough shock of battle, I must still 
Call you my friend. 

Tall. This letter shall be sent 

As you desire. 

And. Thank you. My mind's relieved. 

That I'm no longer an impostor, gives 
Me calm again, restores me to myself. 

[Exit Tallmadge, and scene closes. 



72 ARNOLD. [Act IV. 

Scene VI. — The Highlands. Breakfast-room in Robinson's 
House, with the table spread. 

Enter General Arnold, Mrs. Arnold, two Aids of General 
Washington, and Servants. The principal persons seat 
themselves at the table, and the Servants wait upon them. 

Am. I much regret that General Washington 
Detains himself to visit the redoubts. 
The river barricades would suffer nothing 
From a brief hour's delay ; while toast and coffee. 
Like lovers heated to the proper point, 
Spoil, if they're left to cool, and lose their flavor. 

\st Aid. The general and suite will soon be here. 
Their errand to the river cannot well 
Detain them long. His excellency takes. 
Whether they're hot or cold, but little thought 
Of his repasts. 

Mrs. A. My credit as a housewife 

Alone is like to gain by the delay. 
Under this cover it may in part escape ; 
For when a thing is spoiled, and doubly spoiled, 
'Tis sometimes hard to say how it was spoiled. 

\st Aid. The well-known skill, in all domestic arts, 
Of Mrs. Arnold, needs no accident. 
Or eulogy, to shield or recommend it. 
Mere circumstance can neither aid nor mar it. 

2d Aid. Delays from Hartford hither have beset us. 
Early last night we should have reached West Point ; 
But meeting M. Luzerne, at the most urgent 
Solicitation of the chevalier. 
The general returned with him to Fishkill, 
And passed the night. 

Enter a Servant with a letter for Arnold. 

Am. Excuse me while I. see 

If any pressing matter claims attention. 

\He reads it with an agitation which he is unable whollg 
to conceal. He rises from his seat. 



Scene VII.] ARNOLD. 73 

I am obliged to leave you, gentlemen. 

Say, if you please, to General Washington, 

That I was unexpectedly called over 

The river to West Point ; but will, ere long. 

Return. Bring me a horse I [Exeunt Arnold and Servant. 

Mrs. A. This interruption, 

I trust, will not disturb my guests. You are 
To well inured — \_A Servant enters hastily, and wliispers to 

Mrs. Arnold. 
Excuse me for a moment. 

Exit Mrs. Arnold, and scene closes. 

Scene VII.— TAe Same. Mrs. Arnold's Room. 

Enter General Arnold, 

Am. Hell and its torments seize me ! I am lost ! 
Andre is taken, and the whole exposed. 
Taken ! a tame, a chicken-hearted fool ! 
A lily-livered gentleman, and withal 
Exceeding conscientious. But he'll hang 
As high as Haman. Ugh \ no rope shall ever 
Throttle the neck of Arnold. Where's my wife % 
Why comes she not 1 

Enter Mrs. Arnold. 

[^Seizing her by the haiids.] My dearest, we must part ! 
At once, perhaps forever ! 

Mrs. A. Part! my husband! 

Oh, righteous God ! what can you, can you mean 2- 

Am. Oh, bitter, bitter hour ! I cannot stay 
To tell you all my love, or all my sorrow 
At parting from you ; but it is too true 
That part we must, and now ! Your husband's safety, 
His very life, depends upon his reaching 
The enemy's protection undetected. 
Mrs. A. Oh, mercy! mercy! mercy! 

\^She swoons. Arnold bears her to a couch, and rings 
violently, then tries to recover her, 
7 



74 ARNOLD. [Act IV. 

Am. I have killed her ! 

The sweetest violet that ever bloomed. 
The kindest heart that nature ever cased 

In pearl, and laid upon a husband's breast. \Kisses Tier. 

Now are ambition and the lust of gold 
Worthless as dross ; and now do all my sins, 
My slakeless thirst, my raging appetites, 
Turn back like dogs, and rend me ! [Presses her to his hreast. 

Enter Mrs. Arnold's Maid. 

Lifeless still ! 
See to your mistress ; tend upon her well 
Till I come back. Here's gold. She's in a swoon : 
Call help : guard her from danger — comfort her ! 
Eternal God ! and must I leave her thus '\ 
Help ! help ! or a bright star goes out to-day. 

[Exit Arnold, and scene closes. 

* 

Scene VIII. — The Same. Another Room. 

Enter General Washington and Colonel Hamilton, the farmer 
with papers in his hand. 

Wash. These papers — 

Ham. Came by express from Jameson. 

Wash. Plans of West Point? 

Ham. In Arnold's own handvrriting. 

Wash. And taken on the person of a spy. 

Ham. Major Andre, an English officer, 
Adjutant-general of the British army. 

Wash. Where is he now 1 

Ham. A prisoner with Sheldon, 

At Lower Salem. Here's a letter from him, 
In which with great ingenuousness he owns 
His name and rank, and that his object was 
To take advantage for the royal cause 
Of treasonable action on the part 
Of some one of our officers, whose name 
He carefuUv conceals. 



Scene VIII. ] A K N L D. 75 



Wash. Ah, that explains 

Arnold's mysterious absence. He obtained 
Notice before us of Andre's detection, 
And fled. He went not to West Point. He's gone 
To join the enemy. Pray, mount and ride 
Quickly to Verplanck's Point, and head the traitor, 
If it be not too late. [Exit Hamilton. 

[Washington briefly examines the papers, and steps to 
the door and calls in General Lafayette and Gen- 
eral Knox. 

I am deeply pained 
To tell you, gentlemen, that Arnold's absence 
Is like to be most frightfully explained. 
Look at these papers. 

[Lafayette and Knox examine the papers ; while W ask- 
ington calmly seats himself at a table, and lorites sev- 
eral orders. The silence is only interrupted by occa- 
sional ejaculations from Lafayette. 

Laf. Ah, 'tis treason surely. 

Knox. I have just learned that when the general left, 
His face was deeply flushed and agitated. 
He galloped to the landing, flung himself 
Into a boat, and bade the rowers push 
With all their strength into the middle stream, 
And disappeared upon the downward current. 

Wash. Whom can we trust, when such a man as Arnold, 
As brave an oflicer as ever led 
Troops into battle, thus betrays our cause 1 
Laf. The rest, your excellency, will all prove true. 

Wash. I do believe it, gentlemen. Our cause 
God will protect. In his good providence, 
He has to-day laid open to our view 
A terrible, perhaps a fatal mine, 
Just as the match was ready to be set, 
Which might in its explosion have involved 
Our country and ourselves in utter ruin. 



76 ARNOLD. [Act IV. 

It must be ours to profit by His grace. 

Our danger in its magnitude, as yet, 

Is all unknown. Precaution must be taken 

To guard efficiently the public safety, 

However threatened. While thus we're in the dark, 

I'd thank you to dispatch these several orders 

To the commandants at West Point, and elsewhere 

Upon the river, urging vigilance, 

And every preparation for defense ; 

And this to General Greene, directing him 

To put the left wing of the troops at Tappan 

In motion toward King's Ferry. Further orders 

Will meet him there, or ere he reach that point. \^Exeunt. 

Scene IX. — The Same. Mrs. Arnold's Room. 

Mrs. Arnold, her Maid, Nurse, and Child. Mrs. A. is walk- 
ing the room in a. paroxysm of distress. 

Mrs. A. What is that terrible wordi 

Maid. O do not speak it ! 

Mrs. A. I must recall it ; tell me w^hat it is 1 
Speak ! Tell me now ! 

Maid. Does it begin with T % 

Mrs. A. And what comes next? 

Maid. Is it r-a ? 

Mrs. A. Tvsi— traitor ! 

The word is traitor ; horrid, horrid name ! 
But why should I shrink from it, and my heart 
Shiver and freeze before a simple word % 
My Arnold is no traitor ! no, no, no ! 
No traitor ! trai-tor ! Let me go, I say ; 
I must see Washington and tell him so ! 

Enter General Washington. She throws herself at his feet. 

save my husband ! You are great and good : 
The whole world say so, and you cannot w^ish 
To wrong the innocent. O save him, then ! 
For he is guiltless as I am myself, 

1 call on Heaven to witness ! 



Scene IX.] ARNOLD. 77 

Wash. [^Raising her.^ Madam, rise, 
And calm your troubled feelings. Our afflictions 
Come not without the knowledge of the just 
And merciful Dispenser of events. 
Look up to Him, for He can temper them, 
However poignant, to our failing strength. 
Mrs. A. Is Arnold, sir, a traitor? 

Wash. My dear madam, 

Strive to dismiss this subject from your mind ; 
And seek for other thoughts, and soothing rest. 

Mrs. A. You do not answer me. My God! my God! 
O that I could recall his parting words ! 
Just at the moment of our separation — 
"When darkness came upon me, and the spirit 
Struggled for light, and almost sprung away 
From this sad earth — I very well remember 
A terrible whisper struck upon my ear. 
Like a knell at midnight. Was it, was it true ? 
Heaven's mercy then is gone, and all is lost ! 
If Arnold be a traitor, your injustice 
Has made him one. His soul was full of high 
And noble thoughts ; and he did love his country 
Only too well ! He cast away his king. 
And gave himself, his mighty energies. 
All to your cause. Look at his glorious battles ! 
Look at his body, scarred upon your fields ! 
But you did league against him, and did drive 
His fiery mind to frenzy, and repay 
His faithfulness with infamy and wrong. 
Heaven will remember this, and so will earth, 
In their great final verdict. Mercy ! mercy ! 
Is there no mercy ? Must my husband die "? 
Will nothing satisfy you but his blood *? 
If there must be a victim, I am ready ; 
I'll go with you to prison, or to death ; 
But do not slay my husband, or his child ! 
Spare ! spare my innocent babe ! [^She catches the child from 
the nurse, presses it to her hosom, and hursts into tears. 



ARNOLD. [Act IV. 



Wash. Dear Mrs. Arnold ! 

You and your lovely child are both quite safe. 
None shall molest you, while I have the power 
To shelter you from harm. O would to God 
That I could also shelter you from sorrow ! 
And let me add, dear madam, to relieve 
Your mind from apprehension, that your husband, 
1 think, is safe. 

Mrs. A. He is not taken then? 

Wash. No ; and I think is far beyond pursuit. 
Mrs. A. Thank you, kind sir, for this one little ray 
Of consolation. [Pauses. ~\ General Washington, 
In this brief interview, I fear me much, 
I have o'er stepped myself , I hardly know 
What I have uttered, for I fear my mind 
Is quite unbalanced by my sudden griefs. 
This is my woman's weakness ; pray, forgive me ! 
Wash. Dear madam, I have nothing to forgive. 
God bless you and your child ! and shed His peace 
Into your heart ! Farewell ! dear soul, farewell ! 

[Exit Washington. 
Mrs. A. My blessed babe ! The last, last brittle link 
'Tween me and life. Thy little face, how sweet ! 
Thine eye, how bright ! thy lip, how ruby red ! 
How calm, and. beautiful, and pure, thou art ! 
But listen to thy mother, and be sad. 
Thy father is a traitor, little one ! 
The name shall cling to thee, and to thy children. 
Oh ! ever, and forever ! 

Enter a Servant, who gives Mrs. Arnold a letter. 

From my husband 1 [Opens it. 

It is — he's gained the Vulture sloop-of-war. 
Safe ! safe ! Oh, God ! I thank thee with my tears. 

[Scene closes. 



SceneI.] ARNOLD. 79 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — New York. A Room in Sir Henry Clinton's 
Quarters. 

Enter Sir Henry Clinton. 

Sir H. Where can Andre be 1 It is now four days, 
And more, since I have heard from him. Meanwhile, 
The expedition lags that I have planned 
With so much care and hope. West Point but ours, 
With due support from ministers at home, 
And in the circle of six little months, 
I'd end this struggle — bury this rebellion, 
Which for so long a time has set at naught 
The skill of statesmen and the power of arms, 
I see no risk of failure. The fine force 
Detailed is ample ; and the ships selected 
Are nicely fitted to the river service ; 
While the commander of the posts we storm 
Will ope the gates himself; and so dispose 
His forces, that resistance will be fruitless. 
Money will sometimes turn a stubborn lock. 
That else defies all keys. For once I'll head 
This prudent Washington. But where's Andre ? 

Enter Colonel Robinson. 

Ah, colonel, I am glad to see you home. 

Rob. And I am glad to be here ; but I have 
Bad news, your excellency, to announce — 
Andre is captured, and the whole exposed. 

Sir H. What say you? Captured? Good God! When 
and where ? 

Roh. He went on shore to fix preliminaries 
With General Arnold ; and the morning coming 
Before they were completed, he was forced 



80 ARNOLD. [Act Y. 

To tarry thi'ough the day ; and, finally, 
Being unable to regain the Vulture, 
To make his way in his return by land. 
He came as far as Tarry town in safety, 
Where he was taken by some volunteers, 
Upon the 23d, not far from noon. 

Sir H. Oh, Heavens 1 and where is Arnold ? 

Rob. He escaped. 

The capture was reported by express 
To him, as the commanding officer, it seems ; 
And by a fortunate and hasty flight, 
He reached our vessel safe. 

Sir H. Where is he now 1 

RoT). He's in the ante-room. I'll introduce him. 
If you desire % 

Sir H. No, colonel, no ; not now, 

Andre, poor fellow ! what will be his fate % 

Rob. I cannot tell. Sir Henry, but I fear 
He's in great jeopardy. When he was taken. 
He was disguised ; and hidden in his boots. 
Papers were found relating to West Point. 

Sir H. Merciful God ! they'll hang him as a spy ! 
Why v.'as he so imprudent — why permit 
His zeal to prompt him to such fatal risks 1 
And is the conquest of West Point now hopeless 1 

Rob. I think it is. The capture of Andre, 
The purport of the papers found upon him, 
The flight of Arnold, just at the arrival 
Of Washington in person at West Point, 
Have placed the enemy upon their guard. 
As we came down the river in the night, 
Their posts exhibited unusual stir ; 
And if I'm not mistaken, the main army, 
At Tappan, was in motion. 

Sir H. In what direction ? 

Rob. That, sir, I could not tell : their smoldering camp-fires 
Dimly lit up the west ; but there were other 
Lights moving round ; and out upon the water 



Scene I.] ARNOLD. 81 

Came the faint sound peculiar to the movement — 
The measured tread of heavy-armed columns, 
In the still night. 

Sir H. They Avere not coming hither. 

Since the arrival of our reinforcements, 
They know we're quite too strong for an attack. 
Those troops were moving north, to fortify 
The threatened point. But, colonel, I am pained, 
Sick, sick at heart, to think of poor Andre. 
What can be done for him 1 He must not perish, 
If any means within our utmost compass 
Will save him. 

Rob. Arnold says he went on shore 

Under the sanction of a flag of truce. 
And, making this the basis, I addressed 
A letter, yesterday, to Washington, 
Demanding his release. I ventured, further, 
To fortify my purpose by recurring 
To our old friendship. 

Sir H. What was his reply 1 

Roh. None was returned. 

Sir H. But did he go on shore 

Strictly as Arnold says 1 Can this man Arnold 
Be trusted, in his words, or in his acts ? 

Rob. Oh, yes, I think so, with a prudent caution. 

Sir H. Well, bring him in : I'll see Sir Thunderbolt. 

[Robinson introduces General Arnold, ceremoniously. 
Our project, sir, on which so much depended, 
From which so much was hoped, in the retrieval 
Of the king's cause, in these revolted States, 
Has wholly failed, it seems ; and my dear friend, 
The adjutant-general of the British Army, 
Remains a prisoner, with the happy prospect 
Of hanging as a spy ! 

Am. None can regret 

This issue more than I. As to Andre, 
Whose misadventure must bear all the blame 
Of our great schemes defeated, I must think 



82 ARNOLD. [Act V. 

Your excellency looks upon his case 

In a light too serious. They dare not hang him : 

They know me quite too well. 

Sir H. They also know 

Me ; and my gracious sovereign's power and will 
To avenge his subjects. But will all this save 
Andre ? This Mr. Washington forgets 
That he is but a rebel chief, in arms 
Against his lawful king ; and so assumes, 
Backed by his Congress, to do all those things 
That sovereign powers may do. And, sir, by Heaven ! 
He does them, too, with most consummate coolness — 
As blandly as though born to regal purple, 
And nursed to sway a scepter in his hand. 

Am. He has his points ; but, sir, you overrate him. 

Sir H. I do not rate him any where, shrewd sir, 
Save as a rebel chief; yet he has skill — 
He's a good soldier, prudent, firm, and fair. 
But, Mr. Arnold, do I hear aright, 
That my imprisoned friend did go on shore 
Under the sanction of a flag % 

Am. Yes — no — 

Not literally. 'Twas in the night : a flag 
Was certainly implied. He came on shore 
By my direction ; while he there remained 
W^as under my protection : by my orders 
He changed his name and dress, and took the charge 
Of certain papers ; and I furnished him 
A passport to New York. All this was done 
While I was in command, and had the right 
To do such acts ; and thus the acts were mine ; 
And if the acts were Avrong, on me alone 
Rests the responsibility — not on him. 

Sir H. True, Mr. Arnold. Be so good, I pray, 
As to embody what you have expressed. 
Which at the moment seems to me quite just ; 
With such additions as suggest themselves 
Most likely to have weight with Washington ; 



Scene II.] ARNOLD. 



And I'll dispatch it with my own request 
For the freedom of Andre. Now, gentlemen, 
Does any thing besides occur to you 
As in our power to do in his behalf? 

Roh. Nothing ; and I can scarcely doubt success. 

Arn. The course suggested by your excellency 
Can hardly fail. A statement of the facts, 
In proper form, must of itself alone 
Procure Andre's immediate discharge, 
Or place him on the cartel for exchange. \ExeunU 

Scene II. — West Point. The Parade overlooked by Fort Put- 
nam. Sentinels on duty, and Soldiers occasionally jpassiiig. 

Enter Majors Andre and Tallmadge. 

And. My parents, my dear sir, as I have said, 
Were Genevois ; and at Geneva I 
Received my education, but returned 
To London at eighteen. A love affair, 
About that time, tinged all my after life. 
You, sir, know something of the power of love 
With ardent men. 'Tis their necessity 
To love, and to be loved ; and bolts and bars, 
And the world's scorn, are powerless to subdue it. 
Honora, to my mind, was all that thought. 
In her ideal realm, could shape of woman. 
Here is her picture, from her living features, 
Drawn by myself; but 'tis not half so vivid 
As still she lives engraved upon my heart. 

[Both look at the picture. 

Tall. A lovely sylph — just the embodiment 
Of flmcy's pure creations — what the soul 
Sends forth its aspirations to discover ; 
And having found, links to itself, and worships. 
As misers do the treasures which they hoard. 

And. Sweet, sweet memento of a dream that's fled! 
This picture is my solace. At St. John's, 



84 ARNOLD. [Act V, 

When taken prisoner by Montgomery, 

I hid it in my mouth. Stripped of all else, 

I held myself still fortunate to save 

This little face. .Long years of mingled hope, 

And love, and fear, and efforts to subdue 

Tlie opposition of Honora's father. 

Dragged on, and all was lost. My love was forced 

Into another's arms. I — I became 

A soldier. 

Tall. And a gallant name you've won 
Yourself upon the field. , 

And. And should, perhaps, 

Have added to its laurels, had this last 
Affair but proved successful. 

Tall Tell me, sir, 

Were you to have taken part in the attack ? 

And. Oh, yes ! You see yon spot of table land 
Upon the shore ? There w^as I, at the head 
Of a picked corps, to land ; and winding up 
The mountain, by that path, wdiich would have been 
Unguarded, should have reached, without a scratch, 
The rear walls of the fort. The garrison 
Would have been so disposed that all resistance 
Must have been hopeless ; and a victory- 
Certain and easy. And in that event, 
West Point, the strongest, most important key 
In all America, would have been ours. 
The glory, mine. 

Tall. And a reward, no doubt. 

Equal to the achievement ? 

And. No — the glory 

Was all I sought. The thanks of my commander, 
The approbation of my king and country, 
Were sure a rich reward. 

Tall. But Arnold's portion 

Would have been more substantial ] 

And. Pardon me ! 

I have said naught of Arnold. But, my friend, 



Scene II.] ARNOLD. 85 

Remember now our cartel, and reply 
To me as frankly as I have to you. 

Tall. I will. Proceed. 

And,. AVhat, then, will be my fate 1 

In your opinion, what will be the light 
In which I shall be viewed by Washington, 
And a tribunal, should there one be called 1 

Tall. My mere opinion, major, would be worthless. 

And. Still, I insist upon it : 'tis my right, 
By our agreement. 

Tall. Do not press the point, 

I beg, dear sir. 

And. I must, my friend, I must. 

A knowledge of the worst cannot exceed 
The torture of uncertainty. The mind 
Braces itself to bear a certain ill ; 
And even finds repose, where mere suspense 
Shakes us with terror, and unmans us quite. 

Tall. Then be it as you will, and listen to me. 
I had a friend at college, Nathan Hale : 
He was a noble scholar, and endowed 
With all those graces which can add a charm 
To intellect and worth. When the first blood 
Was shed at Lexington, he drew his sword. 
And hastened to the camp. At length was fought 
The battle of Long Island. Washington 
Retreated to New York. It then became 
Imperative to kiiow the situation 
And movements of the enemy ; and Hale, 
Without the hope of honor or reward, 
Tired with a wish to serve his bleeding country. 
Crossed over in disguise. He had obtained 
The information sought, and was just stepping 
On board a boat to take him to New York, 
When he was seized. Perhaps you recollect 
The sequel of the story 1 

And. He was hanged, 

8 



86 ARNOLD. [Act V. 

Next morning, as a spy. But surely, sir, 
You cannot think his case and mine alike 1 

Tall. Precisely ; and like his, will be your fate. [Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Head-quarters of the A?7ierican Army at Tappan. 
Room of the Board of Inquiry. Board in Session : Gene- 
ral Greene, President. 

Enter Major Andre as a prisoner, hut in full military dress. 

Greene. Some questions, sir, will now be put to you. 
The Board desire, however, that you feel 
At perfect liberty to answer them. 
Or not, as you may choose. Take your own time 
For recollection, and for duly weighing 
What you may say. 

And. I thank you for this kind 

Consideration ; but so far as I 
Alone am interested, I have nothing, 
Sir, further to conceal. I left the Vulture, 
And came on shore at night, at a point without 
The posts of either army, there to meet 
A person and procure intelligence. 
There, I was told, that the approach of day 
Would hinder my return, and that I must 
Lie in concealment till another night. 
Against my stipulation, my intention. 
Without my previous knowledge, I was led — 
Betrayed within your posts. You may conceive 
My feelings, and imagine how much more 
I was affected, sir, by a refusal 
To take me back next night. A prisoner, 
I made an effort to escape. I quitted 
My uniform, and passed another way 
Beyond your posts, as far as Tarrytown, 
Where I was taken by some volunteers. 

Greene. Are these the papers found upon your person? 

And. They are ? 



5cEPfEni.] ARNOLD. 87 

Greene. And this the pass exhibited 

By you? 

And. It is. 

Greene. And what did you conceive 

To be the character in which you landed 1 
Did you consider that you came on shore 
Under the sanction of a flag 1 

And. No, sir. 

If under such protection I had landed, 
Under the same I had returned again. 

Greene. While at Smith's house — 

And. Your excellency, I mentioned 

No house, I think. 

Greene. ^ True, nor have we a right. 

Since the conditions which we have allowed, 
To assume, or ask you this. Whatever further 
You may desire to say, we now will hear. 

And. I've nothing more. I leave what I have said. 
My case, my life, to the judgment of this Board. 

[Exit Andre, led out by an Officer. 

Greene. The voluntary statements of Andre 
Have left us, sirs, but little more to do. 
The facts, indeed, were very clear before 5 
Established by the witnesses examined, 
And several documents before this Board. 
One point alone seemed doubtful and obscure. 
In Arnold's letter, while, with brazen face. 
The traitor owns his treason, and defends it — 
Avers that he, and Andre, by his direction, 
Of right could plot a foul conspiracy 
Against the State, by virtue of his office. 
He also says Andre did come on shore 
Under the sanction of a flag of truce. 
Andre's authority upon this point, 
I take it, is the better evidence. 
The facts before us, then, are briefly these ; 
The prisoner came privately on shore 
To have an interview with General Arnold, 



88 ARNOLD. [Act V. 

And aid him to mature his treachery. 

He changed his dress within our lines ; and thus 

Disguised, and under a feigned name, he passed 

Our works at Stony Point, and Verplanck's Point — ■ 

At Tarrytown was taken, still disguised. 

And pressing toward New York ; and having then 

In his possession papers, which contained 

Vital intelligence for the enemy. 

Is this the office of a spy ? Is it 

The solemn and deliberate opinion 

Of this tribunal, that Andre should be 

Considered as a spy ; and by the law 

And usages of nations, suffer death "? 

All. Yes. l^Scene doses. 

Scene IV. — The Same. A Room at the Marquis de Lafayette's 

Quarters. 

Enter Lafayette artd Captain Ogden. 

Ogd. I'm going, sir, by order of the General, 
Down to the enemy's post at Paulus Hook, 
With these dispatches ; and I am directed 
To call on you for definite instructions. 

Laf. Right, my fine captain : have you picked your escort 
Of trusty and good-looking fellows, who 
Will do us credit with the enemy 1 

Ogd. I'm not afraid to match them with their number. 
Culled from King George's best, whether it be 
To tilt, to box, or stand upon the sward 
For men to look at. 

Laf. So far then is well. 

Now, marlv me, sir : the General-in-Chief 
Would gladly save Andre, could it be done 
With honor, and with credit to our cause. 
But, sir, the plot of Arnold and Andre 
Came near to ruin us. The startled country, 
The friends of this Republic every where, 
Require of those with whom its power is lodged, 



Scene v.] ARNOLD. 89 

Such firmness at this crisis as shall show 

That public confidence is not misplaced — 

That the great cause of human liberty, 

In the New World, will not be left to fall 

A prey to treason, or to British gold. 

To save Andre, without endangering 

The public interests, one way alone 

Suggests itself — to exchange him, sir, for Arnold ; 

And let the public indignation fall 

Upon the chief conspirator. You will see, 

From the great delicacy of the case. 

That such a proposition could not well 

Be made officially. To you we trust 

To make it unofficially. You will time 

The hour of your am-ival at the post 

Of Paulus Hook so late, that they'll invite you 

To stay all night ; and in your intercourse 

With the commandant there, and officers, 

You'll hardly lack occasion to suggest, 

As though 'twere incidental, the idea 

Of an exchange ; and that you are quite certain 

That in this way the Briton may be saved. 

Watch the eftect, and there await the issue ; 

Save that you will return sometime to-morrow. 

Ogd. I'll do my best, sir, and be back in time Exeunt, 



ocENE V. — New York. A Room in the Quarters of Sir Henry 
Clinton. Evening. 

Enter Sir Henry Clinton mid Colonel Robinson, the former 
loith papers in his hand. 

Sir H. Condemned to death ! O God ! can naught be done 
To save Andre % So gentle and so good. 
And yet how brave ! He writes of his own death, 
As tranquilly as though it were a feast 
To which he was invited. What sweet words 
Of kind reimembrance he has sent to me ! 



90 ARNOLD. [Act V. 

And with what delicacy he alludes 
To his poor mother, far across the ocean, 
And sisters, whom the sale of his commission 
Might benefit ! I will remember them. 

Heaven ! How can this doom of infamy- 
Be set aside ? Show me a way ! I'd give 
My coronet, ah, yes, and this right hand, 
To save my friend : for. Colonel Robinson, 

1 love him as a brother, and esteem him 

The army's pride, the flower of British youth ! 

Rob. None can exceed him, sir, in worth or promise. 
But I entreat your excellency not to yield 
To this despondency. I cannot think 
His case entirely hopeless. Washington 
Is soft at heart as any other man, 
And strictly just. When all the circumstances 
Are urged upon him with their proper force. 
He may reverse the judgment of the court. 

Sir H. In his brief letter, stating the result, 
You will observe that Mr. Washington 
Writes with great courtesy, but gives no hope. 
He says the circumstances warranted 
Summary proceedings ; but the case had been 
Referred to a Board of General Officers, 
From whose report it ^Nould be seen Andre 
Was engaged in measures which no flag of truce 
Could ever cover. His tone is very firm. 
Is he a man to change, or to be changed 1 

Enter an Officer. Clinton hows, and points him to a seat. 

Off. Andre is then to die *? 

Sir H. He is condemned. 

[Exit Robinson, 

Off. A worthy officer, w^ith many friends. 
He has a mother and two sisters, living, 
I think, in England 1 

Sir H. Yes, sir, yes. 

Off. The blow 



Scene v.] ARNOLD. 91 

Will tail on them with terrible effect : 
The only son and brother ! 

Sir H. Merciful Heaven ! 

Why do you torture me 1 

Off. Why don't you save him '? 

Sir H. But tell me how % 

Off. Exchange a traitor for him. 

[Clinton sinks in a chair in great agitation. Recover- 
ing himself, he approaches the Officer, and leans 
over him, with his hands on his shoulders. 

Sir H. What do you mean — give Arnold for Andre 1 
Why do you tempt me, sir'? Would Washington 
Agree to it 1 

Off. He w^ould, beyond a doubt. 

Sir H. How do you know it 1 

Off. From the American 

Who brought dispatches to your excellency, 
From the rebel camp. He says, explicitly. 
Though he's not authorized by Washington 
To make the proposition, that the offer 
Of an exchange of Arnold for Andre, 
From you, would be accepted ; and your friend 
Be given back to life. He further says, 
That in no other way is it possible 
To prevent the terrible catastrophe. 

Sir H. What would the world say '? 

Off. That a worthy life 

Was cheaply saved, and a traitor brought to justice. 
You see, Sir Henry, that the issue rests. 
At last, with you. 

Sir H. Who is the American 

That tells you this — is he reliable 1 

Off. 'Tis Captain Ogden : he's at Paulus Hook, 
Awaiting your reply to his dispatches. 
He bears the impress of a gentleman — 
I could not doubt him ; and I'll stake my life 
That you can save Andre from execution 
In the w^ay he's pointed out. 



92 ARNOLD. [Act V. 

Enter General Arnold, in a hriUiani scarlet uniform. 

. Am. Good evening, sir ! 

Off. Good evening, Colonel Arnold. I beg pardon ; 
But I perceive you walk a little lame. 
Pray, in what battles did you get your wounds 1 

[Arnold turns red with a?iger, but immediately recovers. 

Am. That leg has been twice broken. The first time 
Was when I stormed Quebec. The second time 
Was when I drove Burgoyne, at Saratoga, 
Into his camp, and charged ujDon his guns. 
Are you answered, sir 1 

[Turns and salutes Sir Henry idth a low low, who mo- 
iions him to a seat. 

I heard, your excellency, 
A capital joke in the street, a moment since. 
Between two soldiers. One said to the other. 
Sir Henry could not do a better thing 
Than send this Arnold back to Washington, 
And let them hang him in place of Major Andre. 
Ha, ha, ha ! Clever ! was it not 1 Ha, ha ! 
When does the council meet 1 

Sir H. Now — very soon. 

[Exit Arnold, 
To return, sir, to the subject which we left. 
It cannot be. Good God ! to yield a man 
Back to the enemy, when once he's sought 
Protection of his majesty, would outrage 
Honor and justice, and disgrace forever 
Old England and her arms. I cannot listen 
To such a proposition for a moment. 

Off. Is this your ultimate decision 1 
■ Sir H. Yes. 

Off. Shall John Andre hang as a common spy ? 

Sir H. No 'more ! The point is settled. 

Off, Then good night ! 

[Exit Officer. 



Scene v.] ARNOLD. 93 

Re-enter Robinson and Arnold, with General Robertson and 
several other Officers. Clinton hows to them. 

Sir H. Be seated, gentlemen. I have called you hither 
To give me comisel in a pressing case. 
Major Andre is in exceeding peril. 
A Board of General Officers, convened 
To judge his case, have brought him in a spy. 
A death of infamy is hanging o'er him. 
Such are the facts, contained at greater length 
In these brief papers, sent me by express. 
From the rebel camp ; comprising, as you'll see, 
A note from Washington, the Board's report, 
And a letter from Andre. What can be done ? 
In the name of God, I pray you, gentlemen, 
Give me your counsel, and devise a rescue. 

{They examine the papers. 

Gen. R. I think this Board, Sir Henry, are in error 
In their decision. By the law of nations, 
If such the rebels recognize, it would 
Be very difficult — nay, impossible, 
To make Andre a spy. Conspirator 
He may have been against them and their cause. 

Rol. Such has been my opinion from the first. 
If all the facts, even now, in their array 
Of proper strength, could once be brought to bear 
Upon the mind of Washington, they would — 
They could not fail, I think, to change his views. 

Gen. R. Ah, why not send a commission to present 
The favorable aspects of the case 
For Mr. Washington's consideration ? 

Sir H. That is the course that has occurred to me — • 
The only one, in fact, that offers hope. 

Gen. R. When is the time fixed for the execution'? 

Sir H. To-morrow, it is rumored. On that point 
I have no certain information ; but 
If nothing better than the plan suggested 
Can be devised, I will dispatch to-night 



94 ARNOLD. [Act V. 

A messenger, to make my purpose known 
To Mr. Washington. We may, at least, 
Induce delay, and even that is gain. 
On this commission, I will name my friend 
And sound adviser. General Robertson. 
For his associates, Elliot and Smith. 
You, Colonel Robinson, will be attached 
As an important witness to the facts. 
And Colonel Arnold's testimony, though 
He cannot with propriety appear 
In person, he will please reduce to writing. 
That nothing may be wanting to the strength 
And finish of this mission. 

Arn. I will make 

My statement of the facts in such plain words, 
As cannot fail to tell. Since wars were made, 
There never was a case of tyranny. 
And outrage of the law and usages 
Of nations, to excel this of Andre. 
I know not what it means, unless it be 
These rebels are becoming desperate ; 
Or that the blow they meditate is aimed 
At me. If so, I warn them I shall know 
How to retaliate. If Andre is harmed — 
l^ but one hair of his fall to the ground. 
By force, I will repay it on these States 
With fire, and blood, and rapine : and I call 
On heaven and earth to witness, that the whole 
Responsibility for these consequences 
Will rest with them. 

Sir H. The Greyhound, gentlemen, 

Will be in readiness at early dawn 
To take you up the river. 

[Exeunt all hut Clinton and Robinson. 

Roh. One more thought 

I will intrude upon your excellency. 
You long have Imown that, ere this cruel war, 
An intimate acquaintance did subsist 



Scene VI.] ARNOLD. 96 

Between myself and General Washington. 

You could not know, my sister, Mrs. Morris, 

Was his first love, and stole, unwittingly. 

His youthful heart ; while hers, both heart and hand, 

Were pledged unto another. Should all else 

Fail to relieve Andre, with your permission, 

Mary and I will seek the rebel camp. 

And cast ourselves and Andre's life upon 

His ancient love for us. 

Sir H. My noble souls ! 

Can you do this with safety to yourselves % 

Mob. Most certainly. 

Sir H. Then go. God bless you ! go. [Exeunt. 

Scene VI. — Head-quarters of the American Army at Tappan. 
General Washington's Rooms. Evening. 

Enter General Washington. 

Wash. Imbue, O God ! our counsels with thy wisdom. 
Shine with thy light upon our clouded minds. 
Turn peril from us ; strengthen our just cause. 
And bless our feeble eflbrts to establish 
This commonwealth of freemen I 

Enter General Greene. 

Ah, good evening ! 
Your interview wdth General Eobertson 
At length is closed. What, sir, is the result ? 

Greene. I grieve to say that the commissioner 
Presented nothing new. He mainly urged 
Two points — the first, that the prisoner came on shore 
Under the sanction of a flag of truce ; 
And, second, that he acted by the order 
Of General Arnold. Then to fortify 
Himself in these positions, he submitted 
This most intemperate letter from the traitor, 
Directed to your excellency. [Gives the letter. 



m ARNOLD. [ActV 

I replied, 
That these same pomts had been impartially 
And patiently examined by the Board. 
That the American people would believe 
Andre in preference to Arnold ; that 
The former most explicitly disclaimed 
The notion of a flag. He further said, 
No military court in Europe would 
Declare Andre a spy ; and then proposed 
To refer the question to Count de Rochambeau 
And General Knyphausen. 

Enter General Lafayette. Washington reads Arnold's letter. 

Laf. A good evening, 

My noble General Greene. How fares your mission 1 

Greene. But poorly, marquis. The old points were urged : 
Nothing beyond. 

Laf. Your interview was held 

With General Robertson alone, I hear. 

Greene. The Commander-in-Chief decided to receive 
But one of the commission ; and him only 
By courtesy as a private gentleman. 

Laf. They will not give us Arnold for Andre, 
Though they would get the bargain two to one. 
Our messenger brought back a flat refusal. 

Enter General Knox, Colonel Hamilton, and other Officers. 

Wash. In turning against his country, Arnold has 
Lost that acuteness which has hitherto 
Distinguished him. Affection for his wife 
Would seem the only noble quality 
Left to him now. His formal resignation 
Of his commission is gratuitous. 
His threats of vengeance on his countrymen, 
By murderous reprisals, if Andre 
Be brought to punishment, show to what a depth 
A brave and haughty spirit may descend. 

Greene. Sir Henry Clinton could not well have seen 



Scene VI.] ARNOLD. 97 

His letter ere 'twas sent, unless it be 
That in his urgency to save Andre. 
He grasps at every means. 

Wask. I would rejoice, 

With him, with every lover of his kind, 
Could some fliir ground for clemency be found, 
Consistent with the welfare of the State. 
Compassion pleads, but that must not suppress 
The sense of public duty. Gentlemen, 
If you perceive aught, on mature reflection, 
To change the light in which the prisoner 
Has hitherto been viewed, I pray you, speak. 

Laf. I can devise no rescue, save the plan 
Which has been tried, and failed. 

Knox. There is but one 

Opinion in the camp, though sympathy 
For the misfortunes of the prisoner, 
His youth and character, is universal. 

Ham. In several interviews with Major Andre, 
His noble qualities and gentle bearing. 
His rare accomplishments of mind and person, 
Have deeply moved m.e : still I know no ground 
For interference with the Board's decision. 
Or which would authorize his excellency 
To arrest the cause, and stay the course of justice, 
By a resort to his prerogative. 

Wash. The evil that Andre sought to inflict 
Upon us, was the ruin of our cause. 
Had he succeeded, many hundred lives, 
As precious as his own, it would have cost us — ■ 
Perhaps all we have gained by years of toil. 
And lavished blood and treasure : our existence 
As a free people. Whether the extent 
Of the public danger is as yet revealed, 
Or whether we still stand on a volcano. 
Which any moment may explode upon us. 
Is equally unknown. Alidr6 has had 
A fair and careful trial by his peers ; 
9 



ARNOLD. [ActV. 



Their verdict was unanimous. The Congress, 
The people, and the army, view the judgment 
As just ; and, trembling at the magnitude 
Of perils 'scaped, and perils threatening. 
They see no room for mercy. Here to shrink 
Prom the infliction of the laws of war, 
As exercised by nations, it is deemed, 
Would be to offer premiums for treason. 
To shake our own self-confidence, and render 
Our country and our cause contemptible. 
On the other hand, the manly qualities 
Of Major Andre have won upon our love. 
But when he entered on his doubtful purpose, 
He staked his life as freely on the issue 
As the soldier does in battle. He has lost. 
His doom is just. I pity him, but cannot 
Employ the power intrusted to my hands 
To save his life. For reasons similar, 
I have not thought it proper to accede 
To the prisoner's request, to change the mode 
By which he is to sufler. As a spy, 
He stands condemned ; and as a spy, should die. 
You, General Greene, will please communicate 
To the commissioners my final answer. 

[Washington seats himself at his table, and the rest go out. 

Enter an Officer. 

Off. A gentleman in British uniform, 
With a companion wrapped in a large cloak, 
Came to our outposts, and requests to see 
Your excellency. Here is a note he sent. 

[Washington reads the note. 

Wash. I'll see him. Introduce him. 

Enter Colonel Eobinson, followed hy Mrs. Morris in disguise. 
Washington and Robinson gaze a moment at each other in 
silence, and then embrace. 

Wash. [Recovering himself] Now, your business ? 



Scene VII.] ARNOLD. 99 

Roh. To plead for poor Andr6. 

Wash. My ultimate 

Decision has been given. 

Roh. Will nothing avail 

To save him "? 

Wash. Nothing, sir. Were he my son, 

He still should die. I know all you would say — 
You'd tell me of his virtues, and his rank, 
His mother, and his sisters, and the many 
Extenuating circumstances which 
Should soften his offense. Perhaps you would 
Strive to convince me of his innocence. 

Roh. [Greatly agitated.'] George ! 

Wash. General Washington — Colonel Robinson. 

Roh. Enough, sir. I have one more argument. 
If that fail, I have done. Behold my friend ! 

Wash. Your friend! Who is he"? 

[Mrs. Morris drops her cloak and hat. 
Mary! Sir, this trifling 
Is quite beneath my station, and your own. 
I much regret to say, you must inform 
Sir Henry Clinton that your intercession 
Has failed. [Steps to the door. 

Re-enter Officer. 

See that these persons are conducted 
Safely beyond our lines. Farewell ! 

Roh. Farewell ! 

[Exeunt Col. Robinson and Mrs. Morris. Scene closes. 

Scene VII. — The Same. The Room in which Major Andre is 
confined. Andre, in full military dress, at a table, drawing 
with a pen. He rises, with a small portrait of himself in his 
hand. 

And. A few brief minutes, and the life within me 
Will be extinguished, and become like this. 
But while I turn to earth, this still may live, 



100 ARNOLD. [ActV. 

Linked with my name, and find an eloquent tongue 

To tell of my hard fate throughout all time. 

But still I die not. The mere tenement 

Which J inhabit perishes : the soul 

Will live forever ; and the boundless future — 

The vast illimitable spirit world — 

Lies broad before me now. I leave the living, 

To join the innumerable multitudes 

Who have gone before me. Ah, the bound is narrow ! 

And still how dark beyond ; and yet, how light ! 

The good man springs from earth, on wings of love, 

To love in heaven — to roam among the stars, 

To bask in fields elysian, 'mid perfumes. 

And flowers, and amber lakes, and golden skies. 

And love, and light, and harmony, forever. 

Lord Jehovah ! I have only hope 
Through thee. O fold me in thy saving arms, 
And take me home ! 

Enter a Guard-Officer. 

[Giving the picture.'] I give you this, my friend, 
As a remembrancer when I am gone, 
Thanking you still for all the kindnesses 
You have bestowed on me. 

Etiter Andr]£'s Servant, iveeping. 
leave me, sir, 
Till you can be more manly. 

Enter Hamilton, Tallmadge, and other Officers. 

[Shaking them ly the hand.] Gentlemen, 

1 thank you for your kind attentions to me, 
And hope I shall not be forgotten quite 

When I have journeyed hence. My sands of life 
Are running very low. I would not play 
The hero, nor am I indifferent 
To life ; and still, I am not afraid to die. 
Stained with no act to give my soul remorse — 



Scene VIII. ] ARNOLD. 101 

Conscious that my misfortunes, not my guilt, 
Have brought me here, I am reconciled to death. 

Enter several Guard-Officers. 

I am ready, gentlemen, at any moment. 

[jf/e steps to a glass, and adjusts his cravat ; and takes 
his hat from the table, and places it properly on his 
head. 
Guard- Off. The hour has struck. 

And. I pray you, bear me witness, 

That I do meet my fate like a brave man ! 

\_Exeu7it, Andre, cahnly and even proudly, loalking be- 
tween two Subaltern Officers. 

Scene VIII. — New York. Sir Henry Clinton's Rooms. Sir 
Henry Clinton and General Arnold seated at a table. 

Sir H. 'Tis just enough, no doubt, you should be paid ; 
And here's the gold, all told, which you can count 
At your own leisure, sir. [Shoving a bag across the table. 

Enter Colonel Robinson, in haste, followed by Major Andre's 

Servant. 

Rob. O Heavens, Sir Henry ! 

The scene is closed ! Andre is executed ! 
Serv. Dead ! dead ! My master's dead ! 
Sir H. [ With a shriek.'] My God ! 

[Sir Henry covers his face with his hands ; Robinson 
and the Servant spring toward him; and Arnold 
seizes the bag of goldy and steals out of the room. 
Scene closes. 



POEMS. 



MUSIC. 

Hail music ! charmer of the heart 

Fairy of the mystic air ; 
Touching with thy peerless art, 

And with fingers soft and fair ; 
Moulding to thy sweet control 
All the discords of the soul — 
Whether in voices floating light 
O'er the silver lake at night, 
Tamborine, 
On the green, 
Where the rustic footsteps play. 

Tripping to some merry tune, 
Since the labors of the day, 

'^Neath the round rejoicing moon-— 
Or eolian in the breeze, 

Or in murmurs of the rill. 
In the rolling of the seas, 

Or the bugle of the hill ; 
While the echo, startled up 
From its slumbers in the rock. 
On the mountain quick replies, 
With its solemn mysteries ! 

Hail enchantress ! all divine. 

In the rich saloon where Art 
Congregates the sacred nine, 

To soothe and fascinate the heart ; 



104 MUSIC. 



As thy magic chords do quiver, 
Love awakens like a river 

S^Yelling toward the azure sea ; 
And the breast of man and maiden 
Thrills with gentle rapture laden — 

All is full of love and thee. 
Mellow flute and soft guitar, 

Violin of power sublim.e, 
Harp of yore, whose strains afar 

Wail adown the stream of time, 
Yours it is to wake to light 

Eyes with weeping wet — 
To chain the demons of the night, 

And win us to forget — 
To charm with concords of the blest 

Man's spirit into rest. 



Night, gentle night ! the moon is liigh, 

And shows her silver bowl ; 
And wizard nature, main and sky, 

Hold converse with the soul — 
Breathing of music, which no ear 
Of mortal mould can ever hear. 
A rustle in the green-wood calls 
The fancy from cerulean halls ; 
And 'mid the perfumes of the plain. 
Gently floats, 
In amber notes, 
A soft and sad eolian strain — 

Whippoorwill ! whippoorwill ! 
And all is still. 
Again from yonder solemn height, 
Saddest of the songs of night. 
Bursts the strain ; and wilder, clearer, 

Through the garden, o'er the lake, ' 
Swells in numbers drear and drearer, 

As though the minstrel's heart would break. 



MUSIC. 105 



Till the songster from his rest, 
Sinkmg on his throbbing breast, 

Trembling lies, 

As he sighs, 
Whippoorwill ! whippoorwill ! 

Whippoorwill ! 

Anon the morning dew is bright, 
Sparkling in the saffron light 

Of the sun, 
As he lies upon the trees, 
Glowing from the arms of night — 
Bursts the clouds and wakes the breeze — 
Gilds the vapor of the seas 

Rolling dun. 
Hail robin ! with thy household notes. 
And all the other little throats 

That welcome in the dawn. 
Day, with its most exquisite dyes, 
Eejoices all our happy eyes. 

While you rejoice the lawn. 
And yonder skims the russet lark. 
As first the day-star warns the dark, 

Through the empurpled skies ; 
Wafting joyous music o'er 
Tower and valley, hill and shore. 

In triumph as he flies. 

The voice of war is on the morn. 
And music, with a rare array 

Of drum and fife and bugle-horn, 
Adds to the proud display ; 

Waking the soul to martial fire, 

And rousing all a nation's ire ; 

Concealing from our conscious fears 

Our future, with its tears. 

We witness but the flash of steel. 

The champing steed's impatient neigh, 



106 MUSIC. 



And see the squadrons as they wheel, 

And hear the trumpets bray. 
The hour when perish man and horse, 
The sweat, the blood, the mangled corse, 
And woman's wild despairmg sighs. 

Are hidden from our eyes. 
But hark ! from yonder massive pile, 
From fretted arch and columned isle, 
A mournful symphony ascends. 

And with the still air blends. 
And 'mid its cadences are heard 
A stifled sob, a hurried word, 
Unbidden gushing from the smarts 

Of broken hearts. 

But now a hundred tongues conspire — 

Louder and louder swells the strain; 
And with a bold impassioned fire 

The organ peals amain : 
And harmony like sea- waves gushes 

(While the vast temple jars). 
And in a tide of glory rushes 

Up to the stars. 

And thus the funeral dirge is sung, 

Thus music soothes our troublous way, 
Concealing sorrows till they come. 

And then dissolving them away ; 
But always pointing to a light, 
Beyond our day, beyond our night, 
And whispering of other groves 

And other loves ; 
And music, we can almost hear. 
Of glorious concords, and a sphere 
Of beauty, which is very nigh 

In the cerulean sky. 



OLIVIA. 107 



OLIVIA. 

The noble Hudson hath a little bay, 

Where a small stream comes in, 
Winding through eastern vales its troubled way, 

With melancholy din. 

And in the bosom of the river lies. 

Some twenty rods from shore, 
A fairy island, sleeping, while the skies 

Dance o'er it evermore. 

Back from the bay, and shaded with old trees, 

An antique mansion stands. 
Whose creviced walls are shaking in the breeze, 

And desolate its lands. 

Here, on a time, was held a revel gay, 

Full fifty years ago ; 
And the old mansion teemed throughout the day 

With decent pomp and show. 

The sun was setting in a sea of red, 

And all around was sheen. 
When the master of the mansion, bantering, said, 

To a girl of sweet seventeen : 

" Olivia, dear, a boat you cannot row ; 

Your best to-day you tried." 
" I can — I can ! as I will make you know," 

She laughingly replied. 

" Now, sir, what would you think if from the shore 

Upon the silver bay, 
I, in your tiny skiff, with handy oar. 

Should boldly push away 



108 OLIVIA. 



" To yonder isle of beauty, and retreat 

Before the stars are up f 
"Ah, I would give," said he, " for such a feat, 

This heavy silver cup." 

The dance went on, and light the music floated 

The gay assembly o'er, 
When she, the fairest of the throng, unnoted, 

Stole out upon the shore. 

The laughing waters 'neath the mellow sky 

Shone like a bed of pearl. 
Bewildering with a sort of witchery 

The fascinated girl. 

She sought the boat, elate with joyous breath, 

And pushed upon the billow : 
Ah ! little thinking that the wing of death 

In the foam had shaped her pillow. 

She gained the isle, and on its yellow sand, 

Like sea-nyraph from the main. 
Shook loose, and bound with flowers from the strand, 

Her silken hair again ; 

Then broke, as further trophies of her feat, 

Two wands of crimson wdllow ; 
And sped her bounding bark in her retreat, 

Once more upon the billow. 

Meanwhile, the master of the revel stood. 

With light and careless eye. 
And happy friends around in merry mood. 

On his high balcony ; 

When out upon the river he espied, 

With tiny bark and oar, 
A fairy boatman rockmg on the tide, 

And putting in for shore. 



OLIVIA. 109 



At the same moment, nearing his abode, 

He saw a horseman dashing, 
With clattering speed upon the flinty road, 

The iron shoe-plates flashing. 

The horseman paused not till he reached the door, 

Then scanned with rapid eye 
The crowd of beauty tripping on the floor. 

And said, most anxiously : 

"Where is my sister dear, Olivia'? 

Tell me, O tell me where ! 
Her mother, dreaming, saw her in the sea, 

A white corse floating there." 

The revel paused — in vain each straining eye 

The lost one sought to find ; 
And then it was the truth, unwelcomely, 

Broke on the master's mind. 

The music ceased — the ball broke up — pell-mell, 

The dancers sought the beach ; 
And as they went their laces pictured well 

The fearful thoughts of each. 

The boat was floating off* upon the tide. 

Unoccupied and lone ; 
Its oars hung useless upon either side, 

The gentle boatman gone. 

Then there was wailing on that dismal shore, 

And" torch-lights on the wave. 
And the bold diver nerved him o'er and o'er, 

The unfathomed deep to brave. 

And all night long, upon the waters tost, 

His eye with terror wild, 
The brother led the search, and sought the lost, 

As a mother seeks her child. 
10 



no THE STEEPLE BELL. 

And there was wailing of an aged pair, 

And sorrow that was dumb, 
When the poor brother, with a stern despair, 

Bore his dead sister home. 



THE STEEPLE BELL. 

A HUNDRED years have passed away, 

A century has fled and gone, 
Since yonder tower, so tall and grey, 

Was pointed toward the sun. 

A hundred years ! and that loud bell 
Above the world has solemn hung ; 

And daily, over hill and vale. 
Its varied tones have rung. 

Sometimes in joy, sometimes in grief, 

Ever the sentinel of Time, 
Marking for man his little brief. 

Has struck its mournful chime. 

Oh, what a record it has kept 

Of life's tumultuous troubled wave ! 

When mortals joyed and when they wept. 
The marriage and the grave ! 

To-day its voice rings through the vale, 
Its echoes on the mountains dwell ; 

To-morrow, and with solemn wail. 
Its doleful accents swell. 

'Tis morn, and with the early light, 

The peal on peal so merrily 
Rouses the sleepers of the night 

To Freedom's Jubilee. 



THE STEEPLE BELL. Ill 

'Tis night, and every sleeper starts : 

Its larum on the rushing gale 
Strikes terror to the boldest hearts, 

And turns the stoutest pale. 

The ship at sea in peril dire, 

Tossed by the angry waves and wind, 

The horrors of a night of fire, 
Rush on the frighted mind. 

How often when that bell has struck 

Amid the bustle of the day, 
The crowded streets have paused to look, 

And children stopped their play ; 

And wondered if another death, 

A marriage, or a funeral, 
A larum note, or glory's breath. 

Its onward stroke would tell ! 

And if a death, as on its tone. 

Measured and telegraphic, jars. 
Fancy inquires what soul has gone 

Among the quiet stars. 

Quickly the sick are all thought o'er, 

And on, on, tolls the solemn knell ; 
Perchance a rich man is no more — 

Perchance a stranger fell. 

Perhaps a mother or a sire — 

Perhaps an infant smiled and died ; 
A young man full of noble fire, 

A bridegroom or a bride. 

Thus rings that old and solemn bell. 

Thus has it rung a hundred years ; 
Thus will it ring its chime and knell, 

In gladness and in tears. 



112 THE DREAMER— THE BROKEN LYRE. 



THE DREAMER. 

Go on, and build unto thyself another world than this, 
And twine around thy youthful heart the hopes of future bliss : 
Go revel in the glowing dreams of souls as pure as thine, 
And soon enough thy breast will know the bitterness of mine. 

Go on, and dream of soft delights, and forms that float above. 
The artless soul and coral lip, and languid eye of love ; 
And risk thy all and hang thy heart on woman's witching smile : 
'Tis sweet, if nothing wake thee from thy fairy dream the while. 

Go dream of glory, sip the stream of Helicon, and sing ; 
Go charm the canvas into speech, and teach the lyre to fling 
Its soft enchanting music o'er the adulating throng ; 
Go sing of glory, and the grave shall echo to the song. 

Go on, wild boy, and dream of love, of talismans, and fame, 
Gold, gems, and purple, that shall wreathe their splendors round 

thy name ; 
And soon the bright world fancy forms no more shall be descried, 
The urn alone shall tell of thee, the Dreamer lived and died. 



THE BROKEN LYRE. 

I HAVE not struck my broken lyre. 
So long its tones are strange to me, 

Yet raiusic's spell of holy fire 
Is on me as it used to be. 

I could have sung, but would not sing ; 

And yet, have sometimes wept to flmg 
My hand upon the strings, 



THE WHITE CASCADE. 113 



And wake the sounds which sleep so long, 
And find in gentle realms of song 
The calm that music brings. 

Welcome ! thrice welcome to me now, 

I take thee to my heart again. 
My ancient lyre ; and I will bow, 

And woo thy soft consoling strain. 
1 will not part again from thee, 
If thou wilt lend thy light to me 

Through this drear waste below ; 
And thou shalt cheer the passing hour, 
And sometimes drop a fragrant flower 

Along the path I go. 

And if the beautiful, the bright, 

Thou' It show to me, of earth and air, 
The coral depths of ocean light, 

The grand, the gentle, and the fair, 
And raise me on some muse's wings, 
I'll try to mend thy broken strings — 

Rekindle up thy fire ; 
YoY the cold splendor of the earth 
Can give me nothing that is worth 

The music of my lyre. 



THE WHITE CASCADE. 

Lake Erie was still, and it seemed to the eye 
By the fairies for revel all lighted and dressed ; 

Eor the round moon and stars that illumined the sky, 
Like gems set in crystal, emblazoned its breast. 

As our boat slowly glided through azure and light, 
The senses were wrapped in a fanciful trance : 

And we hardly could tell if we floated that night 
Through shadowy worlds, or the starry exj^anse. 



114 THE WHITE CASCADE. 

But a murmur of waters, the music of air, 

Like the sigh of the harp-string, the breathing of love, 

Changed the current of fancy to forms no less fair. 
The deep shady shore, and the cascade above. 

I often had seen it and loved it before, 

As a spot where the weary m.ight rest from his woes ; 
And dream that the toils of this sojourn were o'er, 

As he gazed on the stillness of nature's repose. 

The calm lake was 'neath us, the bright sky above, 

Before us a forest, a green- wood of song. 
Whence the whippoorwill's plaint, and the moan of the dove, 

With the hum of a streamlet, came sighing along. 

And that brook, with its wavelets and silvery curls, 

As it reached the rough slope of the rock-breasted steep, 

White, swan-like, a torrent of brilliants and pearls, 
All snowy and sparkling, rushed into the deep. 

And there was the beech-tree, beneath whose retreat 
I sometimes had whispered to calm melancholy, 

And wept o'er the days of my childhood, replete 

With joys, time had crushed as the offspring of folly. 

And there was the green peak with foliage o'erhung. 

All wild, jutting over the cascade below. 
On which I had sat as the forest birds sung. 

And heard faintly o'er Presque Isle the slow yo-heave-ho ! 

And then I would think of my home far away. 

And of her, though in distance, so dear to me still ; 

And watch the pale shadows succeeding the day, 
And the moon's first reflection on tree-top and hill. 

When our hearts burst to life from the brambles inwove, 
And the tired mind is sick of the world's giddy roll, 

How sweet to retire to some spot that we love. 
And find in calm nature the friend of the soul ! 



NIGHT. 115 



NIGHT. 

Adown the fading east, in close pursuit 
Of Day's bright chariot, comes the car of Night, 
Studded with stars, and hung with waving palls 
Of clouds and darkness. Twilight, in advance, 
The herald courier, shakes his sleepy mists 
Among the valleys. High upon the hills, 
Day still holds empire with a dying light. 
Fainter and fainter glowing, till the whole. 
Valley and hill, earth, and the ocean space. 
Yield gradual to the slumberous arms of Night. 

Eve sometimes comes a gentle flood of mists, 

Softly embrowning all. The winter snows, 

With phosphorescent power, detain the day. 

And dreamy twilight preys upon the night. 

The lengthened summer day clings to the hours. 

The lazy breezes from the balmy south 

Breathe languor o'er the land, and perfumes sweet. 

Caught from a thousand flowers. The evening birds 

Most indolently sing of gentle love ; 

And find an echo in the blood, untamed. 

Of fervid youth. The herds move lolling home, 

Or stretch luxurious on the scented grass ; 

And all the landscape whispers of repose. 

The line of orient hills, the distant town. 

The lowlands, the calm lake, and silvery streams, 

Fade first and turn to shadows. The broad sea, 

Blazing with gold and sapphire, flushed with smiles, 

Keceives the setting sun upon her breast. 

And smiles until he sinks. She smiles no more ; 

A mellow dusk bedims the crystal vale ; 

Widowed, until the morn she seems to mourn, 

And all her coral groves in darkness lie. 



lie NIGHT. 



Above, the mountain top, and then the sky, 

Grow dim : adown the warm and bright southwest, 

A fleecy cloud, perhaps the only one 

In the horizon, blushes and receives 

The last soft glances of the god of day. 

Fringed with each gorgeous color, it reposes, 

A bank of floating pearl ; while toward the north, 

Stretches afar a penciled line of light, 

Orange or regal purple. But, meanwhile, 

The stars are peeping : softly, one by one. 

They timidly look out and brighten. More 

And more appear ; the constellations form. 

The milky way illumes its distant lights, 

And in the east springs up the round chaste moon, 

Bound for the zenith. All the concave vast 

Glitters with gems ; planets and radiant suns 

Far blazing on their thrones of living blue ; 

And far away beyond the reach of sight, 

Almost beyond the giddy stretch of thought, 

Omniscient fancy grasps, and, fearful, shapes 

The Throne of God, the center of the whole. 

Night reigns supreme. Within these silent walls 
Burns no dull lamp in mockery of day ; 
And from the window all the landscape sleeps. 
Save that the fire-fly, emulous of suns, 
Flashes his mimic orb along his path, 
To light him as he flies. How quiet all ! 
Lamps will be lit, and revelry begin ; 
Bright eyes will languish at the sigh of love ; 
Tumultuous passions rage, as night wears on. 
To God and thine own soul yield up the hour ! 

"What mind can picture all the joy and woe 
Of one short night ? The habitation rude. 
The cot, the palace, teem with breathing life — 
Hearts strung to pain or gladness. From one roof 
Rises the choral song of prayer and praise ; 



NIGHT, 117 



Another sends up curses, and the tauit 

And fumes of hell. Each picture has its shade 

Of joy or sorrow, pleasure or despair. 

Night rests upon the earth : its thousand isles, 
Its continents, lie sleephig on the sea. 
Etnean fires burn on some stormy peaks. 
The northern lights flash round the icy pole, 
Lightnings and bonfires, meteors, and flames 
Of burning houses, dot the broad expanse. 
But mostly robed in modest green and gold, 
The country rests in peace. The lamps are out ; 
For toil and health go hand in hand together. 
The farmhouse stands upon a gentle slope ; 
Without, are teeming fields and fragrant flowers ; 
Within, the little cherubs dream of bliss, 
And love lies sleeping on a manly breast, 
Which struggles not to 'scape the curse of toil, 
Nor shames to say, God made me, I am His. 

Condemned to find no peace, no night of rest, 
The unquiet city whirls away the hours. 
Her mass of troubled life heaves as the surge ; 
And miles away the subtle senses catch 
Her laboring moan, and hot polluted breath. 
Her hundred streets are brilliant as the day. 
The lines of lamp-lights, dotted on her map, 
Cross and recross each other, and illume 
Her granite walls and marble corridors. 
In doors and out, are equal blaze and glitter, 
And bright she sparkles as a jeweled queen. 

'Tis midnight ; still the city doth not sleep-- 
Her rare saloons, decked with luxurious art. 
Her scenic rooms and gardens, breathing all 
Of fairy-land, are full of giddy life. 
Soft music floats upon the air perfumed ; 
The promenade, the dance, the fete, go on, 



118 NIGHT. 



But woman's cheek is pale, and dimmed the light 
That beams around her in her gentler walks. 
Ah, who would look upon the wretched page 
"Which forms a counterpart to this bright scene 1 
We fly the task. Let fancy, if she will. 
With chastened wings and pity-dropping eye, 
Explore the burrowed sties and attic dens, 
Which every city hides within herself, 
Crowded with hunger, crime, disease, and death. 

In yon dark street, a lamp, with dying throes, 
Conjures strange ghastly shadows on the walls. 
Two figures grope along the hideous way : 
The one, perhaps, a good Samaritan 
Returning from some blessed deed of love ; 
Perhaps a miser, hugging to his breast 
Wedges of yellow gold, w^hich he has gained, 
And, gaining, lost himself. The other shape 
Shall be a nameless man, crushed to the dust 
By poverty and wrongs, or crimes which seared 
His heart, and kindled hell within his veins. 
Like the gaunt tiger of the Indian wilds, 
He steals upon his prey, and throttles, robs, 
And leaves him with his soul upon his lips. 

In yon fair chamber, where a royal bride 

Might well repose, slumber a guilty pair. 

Seek not to know them nearer. While for him 

Wait keen remorse and retribution dire, 

Mark ye her course of infamy and woe. 

One little year, night finds her in the street ; 

Loathsome, an outcast from the hearth of man ; 

She prays for death, and, coming by the dock, 

Shrinks, rushes on, with one wild look above, 

And outstretched arms, and shuddering shriek, she ends 

Her sad career beneath the closing wave. 

Such is the picture of the bloated town ; 
And all its grades of life are often found 



NAZARETH. 119 



Beneath one roof. The beautiful, the good, 
Wealth, fashion, elegance, and intellect, 
Gorgeous array, and all the art of show ; 
Pale, haggard want, and crimes without a name, 
Shame and despair, murder and suicide — 
All whirl together in the Dance of Life. 

Oh, Night ! without a moon, without a star ! 
Mysterious darkness ! when the raging storms 
Howl, and the thunders bellow through the earth 
A thousand eyes in vain look on thy face. 
Or scan thy form. Most solemnly thou tread'st 
In thine own dark pavilion of the clouds. 
Without an echo. On the crowded deck 
Of some staunch admiral, how many hearts 
Pray for the light, as the o'ermastered ship 
Groans, cracks, and plunges on the rayless deep ! 
Oh, night profound ! fit type of moral death 
Resting upon the world. Morning shall come ; 
The glorious sun will burst the tomb of night, 
And all the splendors of the earth relume. 
Oh, thus Messiah, to the darkened soul, 
Rises, the day-star of immortal hope ! 
Pouring a flood of never-dying light 
Upon the night within ; and holding out 
Life, joy, and immortality to man. 



NAZARETH. 

Embosomed in the hills of Galilee, 
Whose barren tops, alternate clothed in clouds, 
Or blue and gold, in the clear distance seemed 
A rampart, and a wall on which reposed 
An amber sky of most transparent haze : 
Prone on a slope, within a quiet vale, 



120 NAZARETH. 



Luxuriant, of soft primeval green, 
Stood Nazareth, the city of our Lord. 

It was a humble town, though beautiful ; 

Despised by the self-righteous Pharisees, 

And the proud dwellers at Jerusalem 

Beneath the Temple's shadow, 'mong the courts 

Of tesselated marble, and the towers 

Of beaten gold, -and gates of molten brass : 

But it was beautiful, and loved of God. 

Vineyards and oliveyards inclosed it round ; 

Embowering gardens nestled in its midst ; 

The graceful palm lent shadow to its roofs. 

In whose date-bearing branches the wild sparrows 

Builded their happy nests ; the fruitful fig 

Scattered its treasures on the children's heads ; 

The plumed and singing birds, and lilies sweet. 

Arrayed the fields in glory evermore ; 

And wine and oil, the honey and the corn. 

Made glad its people. Toward the sunny south, 

A rocky gorge, a precipice profound. 

Broke the enchanting prospect, and exposed, 

Beneath, and stretching in the hazy blue, 

To the far mountains of Samaria, 

The rich and balmy plain of Esdraelon. 

In Nazareth lived Mary. Beautiful 

We may suppose her in her maiden grace 

As her own lilies of the valley ; pure 

As dew-drops on their leaves. She gave her heart 

In modest love to Joseph. But the angel. 

Archangel Gabriel — he who stands before 

The throne of God — came to her lowly dwelling, 

And called her blessed of women, and made known 

His great celestial errand. Mary said,. 

Behold the Lord's handmaiden, be it so. 

According to thy word : and Gabriel took 

Her sweet and ti'ustful answer up to Heaven. 



NAZARETH. 121 



Oh, Nazareth, much honored ! we look back 
Through almost two decades of centuries, 
And try to picture thee as thou wert then. 
In such a street, the house of Joseph stood ; 
Its decent grounds shaded with vines, and trees, 
And flowers, which the infant hands of Jesus 
Helped both to plant and water. 'Neath that palm 
Sat Mary with her children, in the cool 
Of waning day, and listened to rich words 
Of wisdom from the gentle Jesus' lips ; 
Talking with him of sin, and righteousness. 
Death, and the life renewed, the God of David 
Had promised to reveal in His good time ; 
Glad tidings which should be to all the nations ; 
A light to light the Gentiles ; offering 
To the lost race of Adam life again ; « 

Through grace and love, to the believing soul, 
A resurrection both from sin and death. 
Immortal bloom and joy in paradise, 
Forever, evermore. 

There was the shop 
Where Joseph worked, and Jesus magnified 
Filial affection ; was obedient 
To his reputed father, and himself 
Honored the craftsman's art, and vindicated 
The dignity of labor. There the temple, 
The synagogue, where, on the Sabbath-day, 
He used to read the Scriptures, and to talk. 
And worship with the people. High examples 
Of a true manhood, and the scope of life. 

Ah, who can tell the thoughts that must have burned, 
Like voices of the prophets, in the hearts 
Of those remote and simple Nazarenes, 
When in the Boy-God's presence ! Pearls divine 
Dropped from his lips, and sympathy and love 
Beamed on his face, as sunlight in the morn ! 
11 



122 NAZARETH. 



When he rebuked, he did it like a God, 

Serene, with gentle words, oft brimming eye. 

On his kind brow, age and the timid child 

Would look and love — they could not help but love ; 

But as they gazed, would find the sentiment 

Mysteriously swelling in their breasts 

To adoration. 

But the time arrived 
When Jesus should begin his greater work : 
And the young man of Galilee stood forth 
The Christ, the Man of Ages, as the star 
Set for the fall and rise again of Israel. 
Then sung the angels of the upper spheres 
To cheer his way. Then raged the Prince of Evil 
Around his path. He spake, and it was calm : 
And forth he went to do his works of mercy, 
Healing the bodies and the souls of men, 
And opening to their sight the way of life — 
The path that leads again to paradise. 

Much had he toiled, much suffered, v>'hen he turned 

To rest him in thy bowers. Oh Nazareth ! 

And bear to thee and thine, his home and friends, 

The bread of life. How trite, and yet how true ! 

True now as then : a prophet hath no honor 

In his own land. The greatest Man of Men, 

The Prince of Heaven, was scorned as a pretender, 

In his own village. Miracles ! ha, ha ! 

They had no eyes to see them, and they scoffed, 

And mocked his words, and caviled at his flime. 

They knew him, and his father and his mother, 

And could not be deceived. Oh, Lord ! do we 

Still treat thee thus % Forgive this modern world, 

Though it have light which Nazareth had not. 

Jesus rebuked them. They rose up in wrath. 

And thrust him forth ; and would have cast him down 



GOOD ANGELS. 123 



The precipice of Esdraelon, but he 

Vailed their dim sight, and moved unharmed away. 

Proud Nazareth ! Thy Lord and mine departed 

From thy sweet vale, the home of his young years, 

In sorrow : as when afterward he mourned 

Over that prophet-scourge, Jerusalem. 



GOOD ANGELS. 



A BEAUTIFUL child lay sleeping on a bank 
Of violets, which, pressed beneath his form, 
Sent their soft odors sailing round his head, 
And mingling with the drapery of his dreams. 
Above, the noontide sun with fervor glowed. 
But the green willow-boughs came thick between ; 
And, near at hand, a gentle rivulet 
Dispensed a grateful coolness through the air. 
And made soft music for the sleeper's ear. 
He smiled in pleased oblivion. Beside 
Him knelt his mother ; and she fondly gazed, 
As only mothers gaze ; and ardent prayed. 
As only mothers pray. 

" Thou art my child," 
She said, " my rose, my robin of the spring. 
My darling, darling boy ! Oh ! can it be 
That thou wilt ever change from what thou art. 
So sweet, so pure, and holy ? Must disease, 
Suffering, and sorrow, take thee by the hand 
Through life's rough journey, and, Father of Light ! 
Sin, shame, remorse, drag, drag thee down to death ? 
O God ! preserve my child !" 

Her eyes were opened- 
Around she gazed with wonder and delight. 



124 ENGLAND. 



She saw gcKyd angels niiing all the air, 
And keeping patient guard about her treasure ; 
And as they loc»ked with tender, beaming eyes 
On her distress, she seemed to hear them say : 

*• Man must be good from choice. "We heed him well, 

And whisper eomisel to his erring heart. 

And point him, eonstant, to the paths of truth. 

He must be good from choice. Teach thine own child 

To heed our admonitions, and this world. 

With all its woes, shall yield him happiness ; 

The future, heaven.*' 

Pne mother clasped her boy, 
And preyed him, joyous, to her throbbing heart ; 
Kissed his bright op^ening eyes and ruby lips, 
And wept and prayed for wisdom for herself 



ENGLAND. 

[Wzittcn IB IBio, drnin^ the BooDdazy cantrorersj.] 

C'H. England, our mother ! and dost thou oppose 
Thy strength to our progress, and count us as foes ? 
Are thy great ships all anning. and red flag unforle'l 
The spirit of freedom to drive fix)m the world ? 
Beware I Look thou back through the realms of the j^asi : 
Thy kingdom, though mighty, may well be the last. 
Tne pale shores of ages are cambered and strown 
With the wrecks of proud empires, as proud as thine own. 
Where are Greece, Rome, and I^ypt, and Babylon where, 
With their armies of iron that blackened the air ? 
Like Belshazzar, the finger of God made them pale, 
And the bolts of His wrath came upon them like hail : 
And the ghosts of the CsEsars and Pharaohs are weeping 
In the lost level graves where their ashes are sleeping. 



ET^GLAND. 125 



When weighed in the balance, proud England, like these, 

Will thy girdle of ships and thy power on the seas, 

The noise of thy cannon and flash of thy spears. 

Gird thy loins for the battle, and stifle thy fears 1 

Thou hast borne thyself boldly in Orient lands — 

Thou cam'st but to conquer on Afric's dark sands ; 

The Ganges is thine, and the tribes of the Boodh ; 

Thy name chills with terror the Chinaman's blood; 

The isles of the ocean bow meekly before thee. 

And wreaths of wide conquests hang round thee and o'er thee. 

But say — in the midst of tliy triumphs and glory — 

Say, what shall be writ in this part of thy story. 

When roused from thy dreaming thou spring'st from thy bed, 

As thy millions at home call upon thee for bread 1 

Thy path on the mountain, thy path on the plain. 

Thy way in the wilds, and thy way on the main. 

East, west, and for ages, hath reeked in the sun, 

And fires of red ruin have lighted thee on. 

Thou hast sacked and destroyed, plundered, slain, and enslaved ; 

And the dead give thee thanks more than those thou hast saved; 

And whole nations before thy rapacity dire 

Have been eaten, as stubble is eaten by fire. 

Such, England, Oh England ! thy conquests abroad. 
At home thou hast ruled with a cunninger rod : 
But if spared from the quicker relief of the knife. 
Thou hast ground from thy masses all else save the life. 
Look on Ireland, thy sister, thy sport, but thy peer, 
By thee ravaged, defiled, and cast off with a sneer ; 
But kept chained to thine axle, to swing at thy beck. 
Like the thief as he quakes with the rope on his neck. 

And art thou alarmed for the "balance of power?" 

And across the broad sea do the deep shadows lower *? 

Look at home — they are deeper that brood o'er thy sod ; 

Thou hast far more to fear from the balance of God. 

"Thou art weighed and found wanting" — the storm, oft allayed, 

Is moaning again, and its spirits arrayed : 



126 BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON. 

When it comes, it will dash thee like glass in the hail, 
As the frail flax is broken beneath the rough flail. 
Look at home — ease thy people, and comfort their fears, 
Yov gaunt famine screams in their terrified ears. 
Look at home — feed thy millions, restore them the right, 
And perchance day may break on thy threatening night. 

Oh England, our mother ! America prays 

No ill on thy head, no abridgment of days. 

She wishes thee wiser, and happily o'er 

With thine obsolete throne and the wrongs of thy poor. 

But she meddles not, nor will submit to thy scales — 

Thy " balance of power" may be fit for thy ails ; 

It may keep the old thrones of the tottering east 

Yet steady an hour for their monarchs to feast. 

But keep it at home, or the chain may be broke 

Mid the clashing of steel and the mantling of smoke. 

Oh England, our mother ! and does this offend 1 

As America rises must England descend '? 

It may be ; but if, with the eye of the seer. 

Thou piercest the future, cleanse vision and ear. 

Thou would'st crush us — beware ! haughty queen of the wave, 

Lest thy destiny push thee where ships cannot save — 

Lest thou urge on the battle and hasten the day 

When man with his tyrants his last game will play ; 

For when Freedom's broad banner again is unfurled, 

It will break thee in atoms, and wave o'er the world. 



BY THE RIVEES OF BABYLON. 

Beside thy rivers, Babylon, we sat us down and wept, 

Our hearts were in our native hills, the Zion of our King ; 

And on thy mournful willows, where the sighing breezes swept, 
We hung our useless harps, for we could not, could not sing. 



JACKSON. 127 



Then they who carried us away required of us a song, 
And they that wasted us with grief upon a foreign shore, 

Commanded us to make them mirth their willow vales among, 
And sing the songs of Zion, as we used to sing of yore. 

How can we sing Jehovah's songs in a strange and heathen land, 
Among the temples of His foes with idol incense warmed 1 

And mingle His pure melodies, at Babylon's command, 

On altars of unrighteousness, to gods which men have formed 1 

Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! if ever I forget — 

If I do not remember thee above all other things. 

May my tongue forget thy music which makes glad thy people yet, 
And my hand forget its cunning with thy harp of many strings ! 



JACKSON 



Man of the honest heart and iron will ! 

Cold is thy form and dim thine eagle eye ; 
Earth bids thee a good-night, and tower and hill 

Wave their black flags upon the solemn sky. 

The booming guns and pealing anthems, high, 
Hallow thy exit to the realms of light. 

The cot, the palace, heave alike the sigh. 
And, sorrowing, tell thy deeds and honors bright — 
A mighty nation weeps at bidding thee good-night ! 

Thou wast a star of glory to thy friends ; 

Thou wast a scourge of terror to thy foes ; 
As the soft sunshine with the torrent blends, 

Blended thy mighty purpose and repose. 

For thou wast all alive to human woes, 
The loving husband and the gentle sire ; 

And as the sods upon thy mortal close, 



128 THE OPAL. 



!Fame lights her altar with unwonted fire, 

And gives thee to our hearts, thy peans to the lyre. 

Man of the age ! thy voice of humble prayer, 
Which called down blessings on thine enemy — 

Thy battle cry, which terrified the air, 
And woke of old the land to chivalry, 
Are mute ; and yet their echoes will not die ; 

For thou hast left thine impress on the world. 
Thy name shall light the nations, as they try 

The issues of the fliture, and is hurled 

Man's last defiance forth, and his last flag unfurled. 



THE OPAL. 



Oh, Paideros t child beautiful as love, 

With glowing lip and eye of soft unrest, 
And a whole world of loveliness, inwove 

In the enchanted realms within thy breast • 
Whence is the magic fountain of thy light, 

Now white, or yellow, now red, brovm, or gi'ay, 
That thou canst cast a radiance over night, 

And set us dreaming of perpetual day 1 

From the deep caves of Hungary, where thou 

Art formed in beauty in Cimmerian night, 
Hast thou breathed on the darksom^e Magyar brow. 

And filled his spirit with thy wizard light. 
That he, upon the confines of the Czar, 

Should dream of freedom and a better day 1 
O gem of love ! in the unequal war. 

Inspire him still, and light him on his way I 

But, Paideros ! most lovely as thou art, 
And full of light and inspiration kind. 



THE OLD MAN'S SORROW. 129 

Thy peers are wrested from the throeing heart 
Of genius, whence are opals of the mind ; 

Jewels of thought, which speak with clearer tone, 
And burn with brighter flame, 'twixt hopes and fears, 

To rouse the immortal mind, and light it on, 
And upward, with the cycle of the years. 



THE OLD MAN'S SORROW. 

The pale stars are beaming 

Over land and sea, 
The north lights are streaming 

High and cheerily ; 
While the old man is dreaming. 

If asleep he be, 
Of his Lucy that is gone. 

Gone, gone, forever ! 

The years that have circled, 

And made that old man gray, 
Since the bride of his bosom 

Was given back to clay. 
Have failed to soothe his sorrows. 

To him they're but a day, 
For his Lucy she is gone, 

Gone, gone, forever ! 

When the nights are creeping 

O'er the dewy earth. 
And others all are sleeping, 

Or full of rosy mirth. 
Why is the old man weeping ? 

'Tis for his home and hearth, 
For his Lucy that is gone. 

Gone, gone, forever ! 



130 BLIGHT NOT THY PROMISE, BOY. 

And when the morn is breaking, 
When the blushing skies, 

Their rosy tints are taking 
" To charm all other eyes, 

Why is the old man waking, 
So lothly to arise ? 

Oh, his Lucy she is gone, 
Gone, gone, forever ! 

And when the day is whiling 

Its sunny hours away. 
And he around is smiling. 

As though his toil were play, 
With light cheer all beguiling. 

Why sighs he old and gray ? 
Oh, his Lucy she is gone. 

Gone, gone, forever ! 

Wilt thou never come again. 

Sweet bride of his youth. 
With the sunlight of thine eyes, 

And thy heart of holy truth 1 
Never, never, but the old man 

Shall go to thee, in sooth — 
He will go where thou art gone, 

And cherish thee forever ! 



BLIGHT NOT THY PEOMISE, BOY. 

Blight not thy promise, boy, 
For words are sacred things, and thy just vow 

Hath filled my soul with joy ; 
And with the prophet's gaze I see, even now. 
Thy manly struggle in the race of life, 
And see thee come unspotted from the strife. 



GUIDE THY BARK WITH CARE. 131 

How pure is holy truth ! 
It is the pivot of our destiny. 

For worlds, for joy or ruth, 
Would I, thy father, tell a lie to thee ? 
Would God lie to his children ? Nor wilt thou 
To thy two Fathers disregard thy vow. 

Live only to do good — 
To love thy Maker, and thy fellow-men 

In perfect brotherhood ; 
The Christian's God, thy God : unblushing then 
Thou shalt hereafter on the record look, 
Which angels now have made in Heaven's book. 



O GUIDE THY BARK WITH CARE. 

O GUIDE thy bark with care, my child ! 

A thousand dangers hide 
Along the current, now so mild, 

Of the river thou must ride. 
And golden lights will dance anon, 

To lure thee from thy way ; 
O heed them not ! push on ! push on ! 

And tell thy tempters nay. 

O guide thy bark with care, my child ! 

These dangers cannot harm. 
While thou dost keep thy soul unsoiled, 

Thy feelings pure and warm. 
The world may threaten, keep thy boat 

Straight, where thine angel becks ; 
Push on ! push on ! and thou shalt float 

Safe, 'mid a thousand wrecks. 

O guide thy bark with care, my child ! 
Thp waves will oft run high, 



132 THE STRAWBERRY. 

And storms will rage around thee wild, 
And night will liide the sky. 

But do not quit the helm, my boy ; 
Hold on ! hold on ! hold on ! 

No hurricane can thee destroy, 
Until thy work is done. 

Clouds may shut in like shrouds of death- 
Loud breakers at thy bow ; 

But courage and a manly faith 
Will save thee even now. 

These twain will part the clouds, and free, 
And show thee dawning day : 

Push on ! a voice shall speak to thee, 
And point thee out thy way. 



THE STRAWBERRY. 

O THE red, red strawberry ! 

Give me the berry of June — 
Its nectar is sweeter than juice of the grape, 

Its pulp, than the royal prune. 

Have ye the grounds on the lea-side, 

Where the fairies love to play — 
Where the singing brook and the singing birds 

Wake up the drowsy day 1 

Then rouse thee with the robin. 

While dew-pearls cover the ground. 

And stretch thy limbs on the scented grass, 
And hunt the hillocks around, 

Eor the red, ripe strawberry — 
Sluggards delay till noon; 



MY BROWM HULAN. 188 



But health is in the morning blush, 
And joy invites in June. 



As the soft breath of the harp-string, 
As morning among the hours, 

As the witching moon to a lover's eye. 
As violets among the flowers — 

So the red, red strawberry 
Is among berries ; and sure, 

It fits well the lip of my lady-love, 
As fragrant and as pure. 



MY BROWN HULAN. 

My brown Hulan is far away, 

I know not whei^e he's gone ; 
He mounted his fleet war-horse 

And galloped off* alone ; 
His pistols at his saddle-bow, 

His lance was in his hand, 
And a tear stood in his manly eye 

As he left his father-land. 

i wonder if he thinks of me 

In battle's wild alarms — 
I wonder if he will come back. 

And take me to his arms '? 
For years are gone since I have combed 

His curly raven hair. 
Or sung to him the song he loved 

When he was full of care. 



134 TO ROSE. 



Oh ! noble was my brown Hulan ! 

My soldier true and brave ! 
His arm was like the strong man's, 

To conquer or to save : 
On land or sea, I know not where 

My brown Hulan is gone ; 
And this poor heart is weary, 

And breaking all alone. 



TO ROSE 



WHY should Rosa be in tears, 

When all the world is glad and bright 1 

The lambkins show no idle fears ; 
The birds al-e singing in their flight. 

And yet I could not bid thee stay 
The drop that trembles in its shrine, 

For it hath torn my doubts away, 
And left me thine, and only thine. 

But dry it now ; I cannot bear. 
Although it tell me I am blest. 

The chiding of that silent tear. 
The heaving of that gentle breast. 

O dry it up ; it must not be, 

Although it tell me thou art mine, 

That any tear should fall for me, 
Eor I am thine, and only thine. 



TO LILIAN— TO GERALDINE. 135 



TO LILIAN. 

Forget thee 1 not while memory holds its sway j 
Lethe must first wash o'er this heart of mine ; 

For the best charms that woman can display, 
Truth and affection, guard love's brittle shrine. 

A kiss ! let me rest this burning head 
Upon thy pure and gentle bosom, love ; 

And does thy pale cheek find a grateful bed 
On the young pillow thou hast yet to prove *? 

A tear ! my girl, I'd love thee, thee alone, 
If but for that expression ; thou shalt dwell 

Soon on this breast forever, all my own — 
But I must prove me worthy, love, farewell ! 



TO GERALDINE. 

I LOVE thee, and I fondly prize 
Thy beauty and thy perfect grace, 

The luster of thy gem-like eyes, 
Tliy queenly form and sunny face ; 

Thy silken tresses hanging wild. 
Thine elegant and modest mien, 

Where innocence, as in a child, 
Tells that no guile hath ever been. 

For beauty is a thing of Heaven, 
A part of all in earth or air ; 

And God, to please the heart, hath given 
A charm to beauty everywhere. 



136 THE ONEIDA CHIEF. 

I prize the riches of thy mind, 

Thy sense unvarnished, and thy skill, 

Thy just discernment of the kind 
Of duties woman should fulfill ; 

Thy noble soul, and disregard 

And conquest of thyself, thy sure 

And gentle trust, for thy reward. 

In God, who made thee bright and pure. 

But strange, for these J love thee not ; 

(Yet Heaven preserve them all to thee !) 
I love thee that thou hast a heart, 

And, better, that thou lovest me. 

I love thee for the wells of feeling 
Thou stirrest in this soul of mine ; 

Whose like, as in a mirror stealing, 
I see reflected back in thine. 

For these I love thee (gave my heart), 
And, better, that the Graces three 

Combine to make thee what thou art, 
And, better, that thou lovest me. 



THE ONEIDA CHIEF. 

The chief was in his native hills, his blanket round him flung. 
His dog was with him, at his back his bow and arrows hung ; 
His wife smiled on him, and his boy rocked on the waving limb, 
And God had made the forest dim a radiant land to him. 

The chief stood on his natal soil, by the oaks of his father-land. 
And answer made to the friends that came to lead him by the 
hand. 



THE ONEIDA CHIEF. 137 

Who said the scene on which he gazed was desolate and wild, 
And that the wisest of his race was but a little child ; 

That the Great Spirit whom he loved was not the God of light, 
That the wide world and shining heaven to him and his were night. 
He heard their words, his rapid glance ran over hill and lake. 
And brighter beamed his coal-black eye, and like a chief he spake : 

Call you this woodland desolate, that lake and yonder sky 1 

It may be so, but then it charms the Indian's simple eye ; 

He loves the freedom of these wilds, the course his race have 

tracked. 
The grandeur of the mountain height, the mountain cataract. 

Call you the eagle desolate that springs from yonder wave, 
Floats on the air, and darts him down his kingly breast to lave, 
Scales undismayed the rampart clouds, and gazes on the sun. 
And sits him calmly with his race when all his toil is done ? 

What were the deer, to clear away the forest trees, and where, 
In summer heat, would Indians find a cooling breath of air 1 
Our gushing springs would turn to mist, and the furious orb on 

high, 
With the hurricane, would prey on us, and all our tribes would 

die. 

Here lived our fathers, and their bones are mingled with the soil ; 
Our silent brothers, these old trees, beheld their sports and toil ; 
These rivers and each vale and hill with their loud hurrahs have 

rung, 
And here our mothers honored them, and among these flowers 

sung. 

^. thousand years we thus have lived the monarchs of the wild, 
The sun and all the orbs of night have circled o'er and smiled ; 
And ever from those silent lights the Spirit Eye so good. 
Keeps watch of His red children through the branches of the 
wood. 



138 THE DOOMED SHIP— POLAND. 



THE DOOMED SHIP. 

'TwAS night, and the steamship was ploughing the wave, 
Majestic in beauty and powerful to save ; 
The noblest contrivance the cunning of man 
Hath shaped from the oak or matured from a plan. 
She braves every danger, and speeds on her way, 
Like the genius of night, or the god of the sea. 

All was still, save the engine's monotonous stroke, 
And dark, save the helm-lights and sparks in the smoke. 
The hundreds in state-rooms and cabins reclined, 
Were dreaming of joys which the morrow should find. 
When the shrill cry of " Fire !" wildly breaks on the ear, 
And like magic the change to confusion and fear. 
The fire rages fast, and the helpless despair, 
And like a grim fury Death rides the red air. 
The madness of terror distracts every aim. 
And wild shrieks for mercy go up on the flame. 

Oh God ! must they perish 1 Like specters they leap 
Erom the peril of fire to the jaws of the deep. 
There are white arms extended, the pure and the fair. 
Age, youth, and the infant, to Thee cry in prayer. 
Oh God ! thou art just, but thy wrath, how severe ! 
We bow to thy judgments in meekness and fear. 
Our friends who thus leave us in chariots of fire. 
Wilt thou judge in thy mercy, and not in thine ire ? 



POLAND. 

[Written in 1831, during tlie last struggle of that unhappy country.] 

Old Poland is up ; she hath roused from her grave. 
With the heart of the free, and the wrongs of the slave, 
To avenge, or to die ; her defiance hath gone — 
Her war-cry hath sounded : she battles alone. 



POLAND. 139 



A spirit hath waked in the bosoms that slept, 

And the tri-color waves where that spirit hath wept. 

The world is awaking ; dull Belgium fires, 

And the Roman dares look on the deeds of his sires ; 

The Briton hath asked that his rights be restored ; 

Hispania bites at the heel of her lord. 

That spirit hath flown to the land of the Poles, 

Hath rested upon them and armored their souls. 

Go up to the contest, great Poland ! and bare 

Thy bosom again to the arrows of war. 

Vistula runs red with the blood of thy slain. 

And the bones of thy children encumber each plain. 

Amid carnage so dreadful let Europe look on. 

As you perish to save her, and cry out, " Well done !" 

But the Autocrat, throned on the snows of the north. 

Though he hold in his hand half the slaves of the earth, 

Shall tremble, and does ; and his dynasties reel 

At the voice of thy wrath and the clash of thy steel. 

Where's Austria — where are the gallants of France ? 

Why rusty and low is the patriot's lance? 

The barbed steed is pawing, his nostrils are high 

To the breeze, as the shrieks of the slaughtered go by. 

He is ready — his master is dreaming, that hour, 

Of the revels of wine, and his lady-love's bower. 

Is chivalry dead, and hath mercy no tear 1 

Dream on ! ye are safe, for the stern Cossack's spear 

Hath met in its course with the breast of a Pole, 

Which shielded thy life, if it rouse not thy soul ; 

And the hordes of the North are thus wrested away 

From the Franks they had marked for their gibes and their prey. 

Does Austria sleep, when the hot breath of war. 

And wails on her borders, are sweeping from far 

Of the daughters of those who rushed down to the strife. 

At her call, as she lay 'neath the Turcoman knife ? 

Ho ! up to the rescue ! or Poland shall be 

But a type of the fate that is waiting for thee. 



140 DECATUR'S REVENGE. 

Te gloria^ England ! thy flag whips the breeze 

From the towers of both Indias, and shadow^s all seas : 

Te gloria^ England ! — America, raise 

Thine altar of pride, and sit down by the blaze. 

The flame bursts aloft, it enlightens thyself. 

And thy name and thy banner are safe with thy pelf. 

God bless thee, brave Poland ! and nerve thee to bear 
Cold pity from man, and the taunts of despair. 
Thou canst die — thou hast sworn it w^ere better to gaze, 
With the glazed eye of death, on the funeral blaze 
Of altars, and homes, and the last wreck of all, 
Than dance in thy chains at the Autocrat's call. 
Thou canst die ; and thy fame will illumine thy night, 
In despite of the Judas of Prussia, despite 
Of the thousand black banners around thee unfurled, 
Of the northern Colossus, the phlegm of the w^orld. 

Yet earth shall adore thee. When Poland shall wave, 
If she fall, her last ensign upon her last grave, 
Her name, as it dies from the nations, will stand 
As a monument based on the breadth of her land. 
Marbled with bones that have bleached on her breast. 
The Pole Star of Freedom, undying and blest. 



DECATUR'S REVENGE, 



" Traitor — coward — slave !" 



And along the reeking brine 
Sped the war-boat of the brave 
Toward the volleying Moslem line- 



DECATUR'S REVENGE. 141 

" Vengeance for the treacherous slam, or we die !" 
While the cannon fearful play 
In the bloody death-affray 
Of thy red tumultuous bay, 
Tripoli ! 

Through the front of Turkish arms 
Broke Decatur and his band. 
Free from fear and vile alarms, 
Strong of heart and strong of hand ; 
Like the genius of war, and of grief, 
Leaps he on the Turkish prow ; 
And his sword is gleaming now 
O'er the proud and turbaned brow 
Of the chief 

Oh ! there was no war of words ; 

Espontoons were gleaming high ; 

Half as many freemen's swords 

Flashed to meet them fearlessly ; 

While the leaders, arm to arm, for the death, 

Struck and thrust with mortal might. 

Shivered lance and cutlass bright, 

Rushed to close and deadly fight, 

In a breath. 

Now the bared stiletto gleams 

In the deadly Moslem's hand ; 

And Decatur's pistol streams 

A fire of death at his command ; 

Then the shout of conquest flew on the sea, 

While the Eagle of the brave 

Floated o'er the Turkish slave, 

And re-echoed on the wave, 

Victory ! 



142 SONNETS. 



SOxNNET TO JENNY LIND. 

Enchantress of the North ! thy silver songs 
Have floated to us o'er the sounding sea, 
Like perfumes from the groves of Araby, 

Or like the warbles of the winged throngs 
Of paradise, we sometimes hear in dreams, 
AVhen the pure spirit-land upon us gleams. 

And now, dear Jemiy, thou art coming here 1 
We bid thee welcome to our sunny sky. 
Our homes and hearts, our mountains and our streams, 
Our rugged strength, our faith in Liberty. 

And not alone we thus our welcome bring 

Because thou singest as the angels sing : 

We welcome thee because thou hast a tear, 

And helping-hand for sorrow, Jenny dear ! 



SONNET TO THE SUN. 

Emblem of power, of beauty, and delight, 

Token of mental and of moral sway. 
Seal of the Deity ; of cold and night, 

Proud conqueror, and giver of the day ! 
What have we that is beautiful to see. 

To hear, or feel, to smell, or taste, in all 
The wide magnificence of time, that we 

Owe not to thee, mysterious blazing ball 1 
No wonder that the heathen looked on high. 

And worshiped ; for he saw in thee the heart 
Of all things, whether of the earth or sky. 

Restoring, giving, blessing ; for thoii art 
Creative power of nature, and dost bring 
Life, light, to many worlds, to every living thing. 



SONNETS. U3 



SOxNNET ON THE PORTRAITS OF LOUIS A. GODEY 
AND GEORGE R. GRAHAM. 

Fair as twin water-nymphs, these caterers 
For the lean public do not look as though 

They starved themselves. The two-eyed muse infers 
This at a glance ; and humbly begs to know 
Where the tall clover grows in which they go 1 

Have moving tales, which keep the heart in whirls, 

And the enchanted atmosphere of curls, 

Power thus to change the mere mechanical 
Into the vital, till the rounding chest 

Put on curved beauty, the whole surface-shell 
Shine, as though rubbed with amber, or the best 

Sweet olive 1 Oh, ye slaves of (midnight) oil ! 
Monarchs of magazines ! thrice are ye blest. 

To keep so pigeon-plump, with all your toil ! 



SONNET TO PROGRESS. 

Would ye stand still when Nature's law is change 1 

All things move toward perfection or decay. 
Man now is climbing to a higher range 

Of thought, of action, morals and display. 

Ye would not stop him ? — stand from out his way, 
And see him soar in triumph to the sun. 

Work is God's lever — it is man's ; he may — 
He must work on until his work be done. 

Let him make knowledge as the light of day. 

Cut down the hills to give his engines play. 
Push his great steamships to the farthest zone. 

Lace the broad world with thought's mysterious wires, 

Fly like an eagle, if the wish inspires, 
And conquer all earth's evils, one by one. 



144 A SONG FOR THE MILLION. 



A SONG FOR THE MILLION, A PEAYER FOR 
US ALL. 

God of the mountain, God of the storm, 
God of the flowers, God of the worm ! 
Hear us and bless us, 
Forgive us, redress us ! 
Breathe on our spirits thy love and thy healing, 
Teach us content Mdth thy fatherly dealing — 
Teach us to love thee, 
To love one another, brother his brother, 
And make us all free — 
Free from the shackles of ancient tradition, 

Free from the censure of man for his neighbor ; 
Help us each one to fulfill his true mission. 

And show us 'tis manly, 'tis Godlike to Labor ! 

God of the darkness, God of the sun, 
God of the beautif\il, God of each one ! 
Clothe us and feed us, 
Illume us and lead us ! 
Show us that avarice holds us in thrall — 
That the land is all tliine, and thou givest to all. 
Scatter our blindness ; 
Help us do right, all the day and the night — 
To love mercy and kindness ; 
Aid us to conquer mistakes of the past ; 

Show us our future, to cheer us and arm us. 
The upper, the better, the mansions thou hast ; 

And, God of the grave ! that the grave cannot harm us. 



THE END. 




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